


Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

by Reiven



Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Attempted Murder, Everybody Loves Rick, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Intubation, Movie Spoilers, Murder, Rick Whump, Team as Family, Whump, squad feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-08-08 22:03:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 63,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7775335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reiven/pseuds/Reiven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Rick Flag is gravely injured by unknown assailants, it’s up to Amanda Waller and the squad to find the people responsible and dole out retribution. Somewhere along the way they all figure out what it means to be a squad, a team and maybe even friends.  There’s heaps of fun with a slight murdery quality and a lot of ass gets kicked.</p><p>Epilogue up and this story is officially complete!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thunderstruck

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>   
> 

Rick Flag would begrudgingly admit to having developed a bit of a soft spot for his newly acquired and rather unruly in a violent murderous manner subordinates. Especially now since they were the only members of his team still left, plus Katana and most unlikely, GQ, who they’d found surprisingly alive and truthfully rather obnoxiously chipper buried under a mountain of molten rocks and ash being protected from the scorching elements by a seriously injured but very much alive Diablo. Though Flag couldn’t say he’s all too surprised, after all you can’t kill a demon with fire.

Speaking of demons, Amanda Waller was obviously a demonic entity in a league entirely of her own.

“If they refuse to surrender the package, kill them. If they refuse to cooperate, kill them. If they’re thinking of double crossing us, kill them. If a distant cousin of their mothers’ so much as coughs suspiciously in the general direction of a US citizen, kill them.”

Flag could feel the tub-thumping of an oncoming headache pulsing behind his eyeball as he massaged the bridge of his nose. “Aren’t we going into allied territory on a peaceful mission to escort the Ugandan Prime Minister’s daughter back home?”

Amanda levelled him with a steely gaze and Flag was sure it shaved a good couple years off his life. “Did I stutter, Colonel Flag?”

“No, ma’am. You heard the lady, fellas, time for package extranctin’.” Flag’s instructions were met by a chorus hoots and hollering’s showing the teams genuine excitement to finally be getting back other there on a mission. Flag just wanted to curl back up in bed in a pair of jammies he hasn’t voluntarily chosen to wear since he turned four, tear into a large pack of Doritos dip it in some good ol’ Rocky Road and just watch some stupid, mindless reality show.

To be fair, none of the guys in front of him besides GQ and Katana were at ground zero during the Enchantress FUBAR and _none_ of the people in front of him just got dumped by the love of their life. Well, dumped wasn’t the word June had chosen, as she had explained, she just couldn’t stand to be anywhere near the subway station of the city without getting violent flashbacks and nightmares about the incident and truthfully Flag didn’t blame her. She couldn’t stay and he couldn’t leave. So thus was the impasse. Ultimately Flag no longer had anyone to help him keep his bed company and warm at night. Not to say that Flag didn’t completely understood June’s explanation though, but while he scrolls through the pictures she religiously sends him of her travels to foreign lands, visiting crowded beaches and average shopping malls in South East Asia and avoiding any country with even a whisper of any sort of magical history like…well, the plague, and looking happier and healthier than he’d seen her in ages, Flag thinks that _dumped_ is as good a word as any.

Truthfully he just wanted to get out there and kill some motherfuckers.

Which is why he’s absolutely livid when he arrives back at his apartment the next morning, tossing his keys onto the counter top and walking over to the fridge to retrieve some milk. Or a beer. Or some amyl nitrate if it happened to be lying around.

Not one bullet was fired during the whole mission. Not one! Absolutely no fire was exchanged during the entire 7 hour mission, everyone was extremely cooperative, the package did not make a fuss once like teenagers are supposedly wont to do, and at no point did Flag need the urge to kill her. Waller would have been disappointed.

Was this really what he and his team had been reduced to? Babysitting duty?

Plus he didn’t get to kill _anything_ , not even a damn mosquito, since the darn insects seemed to completely evaporate whenever they come within the vicinity of Katana’s sword.

Before all this shit went down, which surprisingly is only about two and a half months ago, considering that Flag feels like he’s aged about ten years since, he would have shot anyone who said that a time would come when he’d be missing the company of a psychotic bunch of murdering thugs. But here he was, standing in the middle of his crappy apartment furnished with only the barest essentials, staring out his window at the gorgeous view of the dark, dank alley below where a half-naked homeless man is currently relieving himself against a rather beautiful piece of graffiti work depicting Darth Vader in a pink tutu and a unicorn horn headband, while drinking his milk which is about four hours away from _really_ spoiling, straight out of the carton. It’s here that he finally realized, or finally learned to live with the fact that he did miss the company of his psychotic bunch of murdering thugs. They were _his_ psychotic bunch of murdering thugs. Plus they kept things lively and by lively he means nine times out of ten times he fantasized about shooting every single one of them in the face, especially Lawton and he was sure the feeling was more than mutual.

So how exactly did he find himself in this position? Enchantress’ magic must still be at work, or June’s retained some of her skill at mind warping and is secretly hiding behind a pillar fucking with him because obviously he doesn’t remember making the request call to Waller. He couldn’t have done it voluntarily right?

“Hey, Flag, you jackin’ off back there? Shit got suspiciously quiet all of a sudden.”

Seriously, _why_ would he?

“Don’t you project your perversion onto me, Lawton.”

“I just gotta check, man, cause you know jerking off in unhygienic situations is the leading cause of sexually transmitted by floor disease.”

Oh yeah, cause he’s a sad pathetic human being who has zero life outside his work and zero friends outside his team. And maybe at a stretch, the targets on his missions for about two-point-five seconds before he blows their brains out. June at the very least still considers them friends; she just sent him a package in the mail with turned out to be a box full of unwashed clothes, some undergarments, a few socks and a packet of jelly beans. There was also a small note attached written by June that said ‘ _I really didn’t dump you, I know that’s what you’re thinking. I just need a little bit of time to just find myself again. We’re just on a break’ –_ classic signs of a dumping— _‘I still love you. P.S – I’m not dumping you, stupid.’_

All in all it’s a pretty pathetic resume.

“Just shut your mouth and eat your slider. You’re lucky I didn’t bring you back some long horn fried grasshopper.”

“Well you know, they say _nsenene_ is actually really good for the libido.”

“Jesus Christ, why are you so interested in my libido all of a sudden?”

“Well when you’re lookin’ at three back-to-back life sentences in solitary confinement, you realize that there isn’t that much shit to do with your time. Speaking of time, next time you come bring me some tamarind and an airtight metal container. I’ll make you some moonshine that’ll really put hair on your chest.”

“Right because they’ll let me walk right in with something that can be used as a weapon and a grocery bag full of tamarind.”

“Well you can shove the tamarind in your pants, no one’s gonna know the difference, and they’ll come out freshly fermented too.”

“Christ, man, I’ll get you a porn mag so you can let out all this obviously pent up sexual energy.”

The conversation wasn’t something you’d usually have over White Castle sliders and soda, but then again the people having it couldn’t be considered usual by any definition of the word either. Flag was sitting on his butt, legs stretched out on the cold white corridor floor of Belle Reve Penitentiary’s lowest level (people who knew about it used to call it the seventh level of hell), back against the ten inch thick metal door separating him and Lawton. He couldn’t see the other man, but he imagined him in a similar position.

“What you can do is bring me an issue of Guns and Ammo. Whichever’s fine but try getting May. I saw it when we walked past a newsstand in the city and it was doing a sweet editorial on the Smith and Wessen M&P 10.”

“I’m not bringing a gun magazine for you to jerk off to in your cell, man, what’s wrong with you people?”

“I don’t know why we have to keep having this conversation, Flag. In case you’ve forgotten, we’re the _bad guys_. And looks who’s the one concerned about libidos now huh? Pot and kettle, man. Pot and kettle.”

“I’m seriously going to stop comin’, man. Enjoy your slider cause it’s gonna be your last.”

“Why haven’t you already?” Lawton asks and Flag stills.

Why hasn’t he? It’s a good question and truthfully, he doesn’t know either.

“I don’t know,” he answers simply. The air in the place got real uncomfortable and deep, real fast. Flag wasn’t really ready to let Lawton or any of them know that his life in the real world would decrease in excitement whenever they weren’t around. He didn’t want them to see how pathetic he really was since they needed to see him and respect him as a leader. “By the way, I saw Zoe a couple of days ago. She told me to tell you she aced her math exam again but got scolded by her teacher because apparently the angle trajectory of a bullet aimed to kill someone wasn’t an acceptable example to provide,” he could hear a derisive snort from the other side of the door and a muttered ‘ _what the hell  would she know_ ’. “Also she started talking about this boy in school she liked and—”

Whatever Flag hoped to achieve with that last comment he did. Because he heard an ungraceful shuffling of feet, the cracking sound of paper being crumpled and a roar of ‘Whaaaaaaaaaaaat?!’ before Lawton’s enraged voice came projecting out of the small opening in the door above his head.

“What the fuck, Flag, are you fucking’ with me? Little punk ass trying to take advantage of my daughter. _My_ little girl, not in this life time! She’s just a child and if she thinks this is acceptable behaviour, I mean what do we even know about this piece of shit little punk!”

“Geez, relax man,” came Flags light-hearted and amused reply as he popped up into Lawton’s line of sight, a cheeky grin on his stupid white boy face. “I was just messin’ with you. She didn’t say anything about a boy, I was just tryin’ to piss you off, man.”

Lawton was silent for a minute as he attempted to physically rearrange his thoughts. “Just messin—man, don’t you ever joke about something like that, it’s not funny!” Flag could see him pacing up and down his cell, massaging his knuckles. “My little girls just a child, man, she’s just seven years old—”

“Isn’t she eleven?”

“She’s a child! You know how disgusting and evil boys can be. Don’t you ever joke about that. I will claw my way out through this metal door to beat your stupid face in then I’m gonna eat all your fucking sliders.”

“I’m sorry, I apologize,” but the lopsided grin on his face indicated that he wasn’t sorry in the slightest. “I won’t joke about that again. But you know, there’s this thing that kids do, I don’t know if you’ve ever heard about it before, it’s a pretty magical thing that’s called _growing. up_. Eventually Zoe is gonna get all those boys in her yard.”

“Man, shut the hell up. Seriously, shut. The. Fuck. Up. If ever there was a time that called for someone to stop talking immediately, it would be right now.”

“Alright, I gotta cut and run anyway. Some of us who aren’t wanted criminals actually have a life and responsibilities outside these walls.” Flag bent down to pick up the empty food wrappers and gather the uneaten sliders, shoved them back in the plastic bag and shoved it through the opening of Lawton’s cell. “Here, you can have mine.”

“Yeah, you better run. Remember, I owe you an ass kickin’.”

“We’ll see, Lawton. You know, without your guns, you’re just an average guy like us, only slightly more murder-y.”

“Hey, Flag.”

He stops as he’s about to turn to leave, mentally ready for whatever insult or sexual innuendo Lawton’s about to let fly.

“My friends call me Floyd,” he says instead.

Not gonna lie, Flag’s kind of touched, but he’s not about to let the situation turn into some touchy-feely chick flick moment.

“My friends call me Colonel Flag,” he says.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Lawton says with a grin. “The fact that you actually have friends.”

Flag can’t help it, he laughs. “Exactly. The closest I have to a nick name is Waller calling me a little bitch when there’s no one around.”

Lawton laughs a genuine laugh and so does Flag.

“That lady is evil with a capital _evil_ , man. And that’s sayin’ something comin’ from us. Seriously tho is Amanda Waller short for Abaddon King of locusts?”

“I didn’t know you were religious, _Floyd_. So does this mean we’re friends now? Because I gotta tell you, I’m not keen on sleepovers. Especially considering your…living arrangements.”

“Take it as you will, _Colonel_ Flag. I did kill a Hebrew Cohen once for seven grand. That was chump change, but the asshole annoyed the shit out of me I would have done it for fucking free.”

Flag wasn’t exactly sure how he’d gotten to the point in his social life where _this_ conversation really didn’t feel all that bizarre or even morally incorrect.

“You really are messed up.”

“But seriously not as messed up as the guy who keeps on coming back to this hell hole for more.”

“I guess that’s true. Oh well, I guess I’ll stop comin’ then, I have better things to do anyway,” he says with a nonchalant wave as he walks off and out of Lawton’s line of sight.

“Don’t forget the magazine next time, man, remember it’s the May issue!”

He hears Lawton’s voice calling from down the walkway and he can’t help the small grin that breaks out on his face. He really is this pathetic.

Before he leaves he drops by to check on the others to see if they’re being treated well. And by _well_ he means that they’re not getting the crap beaten out of them unless they truly deserved it. He can’t have any member of his squad down just because a couple of trigger happy guards couldn’t keep their hands off their batons. Although since their return to Belle Reve as the official saviours of the city, the guards have been a lot less hands on in their treatment. Generally they all go out of their way avoid dealing with the prisoners unless it’s mandatory, plus Flag may or may not have insinuated that if even one member his squad is unable to perform their missions in the future because of something that happened at Belle Reve, then they were going to have to deal with him…and Waller. Flag was sure the latter was the name that really sold it.

 He drops off a new album for KC by The Re-Stoned aptly titled Reptiles Return and a book for Diablo; _How to take the Grrrr out of Anger_. It’s a children’s book but the guy seemed to like it and to be honest, it makes Flag feel kind of glad, if not a little happy deep down. It’s a good idea to stay on the good side of the guy who could burn the world to a crisp just by sneezing. It goes without saying that no one considered provoking Diablo ever again.

While Flag was by Diablo’s cell—he’d finally allowed them to move him to a regular one since then and not the full metal cubbyhole he’d chosen to inhabit before, he noticed a poster on the wall and a couple of CD’s lying around. Diablo noticed his gaze and said that GQ had been by a couple of times with gifts. Flag’s immediate first thought was obviously the impenetrable hell hole that was Belle Reve was obviously no longer impenetrable since every Tom, Dick and Harry seems to be traipsing in and out with no problem. But on the other hand, obviously Waller had little problem with it because if there was one person whose authority could override even that of the Belle Reve director regarding visitors, it would be Amanda Waller. Flag was glad she was on their side, or at least, he was glad her own side coincided with theirs most of the time.

On the subject of GQ, obviously the guy was more than a little grateful for being alive and in his book saving someone from certain death obviously meant that they were now BFF’s for life. At least that’s the way GQ saw it but he’s probably even more socially pathetic than Flag was.

While in Uganda, in between finishing the mission and trying not to die from utter boredom, Flag bought Quinn a bag of authentic, organic, hand roasted Ugandan coffee beans, which she accepted gleefully, pulling Flag rather viciously into the metal bars and planting a kiss on his cheek.

“You’re welcome.”

“I like you, colonel cupcake, you’re nice,” she purred.

“I’d appreciate if you don’t call me that out in public, or ever again.”

“Okie-dokie, cupcake,” she answered, skipping off to brew her newly acquired coffee beans in the coffee machine he’d delivered on Waller’s orders and completely ignoring Flag’s presence from then on. Flag took it as a sign to am-scray.

As for Boomerang, one of the clean-up crew at ground zero had confusedly found the fluffy unicorn plushie right in the midst of the battle zone and brought it to his attention while he was there making sure that there was no secondary threats or dangerous residual energy left behind from the battle.

The poor guy had been absolutely, almost hilariously distraught when he lost it. Flag wasn’t sure whether his anguish in jail was because he was being incarcerated for three lifetimes or because he lost his doll.

He supposed he was about to find out as he slid open the small opening in the door and threw the doll in.

For a few seconds there was silence, and all of a sudden he heard a deep, shrill, wail being emitted from inside the cell. It didn’t sound human, or even animal. It sounded raw and deep and guttural, like it wasn’t even a sound coming out of someone’s mouth, more like it was leaking out his very soul. Whatever it was, Flag imagined the scene inside was even more sickening and quickly closed the latch and trudged off. When the sound of wet blubbering reached his ears even through the closed door, he was sure the decision to get the fuck out of there as quickly as he could was indeed the right one.

He suddenly noticed a weight in the left breast pocket of his jacket and he remembered the clean-up crew guy had also found a silver cross along with the unicorn doll; a silver cross on a chain he was pretty sure he saw Lawton putting on when he was getting changed. He was going to ask him about it today, but between the sliders and the sex talk, he’d completely forgotten about it. Next time then. Flag didn’t really want to think about how much he was looking forward to that next time.

Katana was waiting for him outside when he exited. Her expression was as cold as ice but somehow the aura around her was knowing and all too cheerful and it annoyed the shit out of Flag.

“Shut up,” he instructed, even though she hadn’t said anything.

She fell into step behind him as they walked out the gates of Belle Reve Penitentiary. For a few moments neither of them said anything and Flag was hoping that maybe she’d actually let this one slide. Instead, she’d just lulled him into a false sense of security.

“Tanoshikatta desu ka?”

“ _Urusai_.”

Flag could feel her smirk boring a hole into a back of his skull. He suddenly felt nostalgic for the time when his men, now consisting of only Katana and GQ, still looked at him with fear and respect and didn’t give snide comments or smart ass answers. It’s one of the downside of hanging with the bad guys, their bad attitude tend to rub off.

“Meirei da, _shitagae_.”

“Sou desu ka?”

Yup, definitely rubbed off.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Japanese speaking skills comes from 10 plus years of watching anime, meaning, it's probably bad, just so you know.
> 
>  
> 
> _Tanoshikatta desu ka? - Did you have fun?_
> 
>  
> 
> _Urusai! - Shut Up!_
> 
>  
> 
> _Meirei da, shitagae - That's an order, follow it._
> 
>  
> 
> _Sou desu ka? - Is that so?_


	2. Hells Bells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Depiction of violence and bodily harm. Mature language.
> 
> Also, Killer Croc is referred to as KC by the asshole guard in the movie, I liked it and I thought the character might secretly like it too despite the source, it so I kept it.

Floyd was loath to admit it but that pasty white boy was seriously growing on him. But what was that accent though? Some messed up Viking hillbilly hybrid?

When a person’s been in this line of business as long as he has, they get treated like all kinds of crap by all kinds of people because essentially people just see the gun and what the gun can do to benefit them. They don’t see the person, which was totally fine with Floyd because at the same time he only sees those people’s money and what that money could buy for him. Some Rolex watches, some bling, a sweet ride, a nice island somewhere in the Caribbean. 

His ex-wife is a piece of shit who really has been asking for all the bad shit that’s happened to her. Her (and Floyd’s) only saving grace was Zoe. Sometimes Floyd still wonders how a murdering gun-for-hire like him and junkie mom could make something so pure and innocent and smart like his daughter. Zoe’s the only person who’s ever treated him like a person, who looks up at him as sees a man, her father, and not some hired gun to be used and not a criminal to be beaten. But she’s his daughter, it’s different.

Then Rick Flag shows up like some white saviour superior, orders them around like his rank means shit to any of them, actually kills one of them brutally and expects them to just fall in line because his girlfriend starts fucking up the city. Floyd thinks he’s got Flag pegged down; typical G.I Joe Jarhead with a white saviour complex who thinks he’s better than everyone else. But he answers to Mephistopheles’ mistress without snide remarks or obvious put on show of respect or any sort of that misogynistic complex crap, though that could be the soldier in him. Plus that lady is scary as all hell, so Floyd really didn’t blame him.

But then they won the battle and he lost all of his men besides two. They thought they lost Diablo but the dude turned out to be harder to kill than a roach from hell. Floyd was sure that was going to be it for them. Their asses were going to be carted off back to Belle Reve, their promise to let him see his daughter probably already forgotten the moment they agreed. He was going to rage and probably end up killing a couple of guards just for the hell of it.

But Flag takes them all to get cleaned up, gets them all fresh new clothes that still even smelled like lavender detergent and the laundromat it came from and personally escorts Floyd over to see Zoe. He lets them have their alone time while Floyd helps her with her homework, no handcuffs, no tracking device, no manacles on his ankles lashing him to the dinner table. After a couple of hours he returns with the guards and doesn’t let them chain Floyd up until he’s managed to hug his daughter goodbye and walked out of the apartment and out of her sight.

For sure that was going to be it. Obviously they were just a squad when it benefits the big guys upstairs.

But then Flag shows up one day out of the blue at Belle Reve. Floyd thinks it’s probably residual magic left over from their fight with the Enchantress, or maybe Flag got more than Enchantress magic on him from… _liaison_ with June. The dude’s even holding up a bag of tacos to the small opening in his cell door, the scene was just too bizarre to be real.  But it did turn out to be real, the tacos tasted like heaven in a paper wrapper. Hell, he even brought non-alcoholic Pina Coladas. Then all of a sudden they’re talking about stuff like two average Joe's over tacos. Flag tells him that June left to go find herself. Floyd can’t really blame her though, after getting taken over by some evil, ancient spirit and levelling half the city, killing a whole bunch of people and almost killing her boyfriend, he’d have to go find himself too. Floyd’s not sure why Flag’s actually telling him any of this but the guy seems genuinely distraught so he just lends a listening ear.

But then Flag’s telling him about his daughter, that she’s doing well in school and seems to be dealing with everything okay. He also says that he checked their financial situation and that they were doing okay with the bills and the rent. Floyd’s suddenly glad for the tons of metal separating them because he can’t stop the tears from flowing; he chews the inside of his cheek and doesn’t say anything when Flag finishes talking. He doesn’t know if Flag knows how it affected him, but Flag doesn’t push for a reply, there’s just silence from the other side of the door. Eventually when he’s finally able to pull himself together, he manages a strained reply.

“Thanks…for…checkin’ up on her.”

“No problem, man. It’s the least I could do after all you guys have done.”

From then on, Floyd really doesn’t know what to think any more. The guards stop being gigantic dicks. They start getting three meals a day consisting of food that is actually edible—none of which compares to the taste of the tacos. He actually gets rec time now; sometimes he sees Diablo or Boomerang walking by from across the court, coming from their own rec time. A couple of times a guard would actually come by with a freshly brewed cup of coffee from Harley, even more surprising was the fact that it still looked drinkable and didn’t smell at all like piss.

But for sure _this_ was it, right? Golden Boy Flag had done his civic duty, gone far above and beyond even, made sure that all of them were at least treated like human beings, cause _all of this_ smelled like he’d had a hand in it. He’d treated all of them, even the humanoid Croc like actual people when they were together. Hell, he even came bearing tacos!

Then Flag shows up again with McDonalds’.

Then with true-blue, genuine three cheese on the circular dough no pineapple, _actual pizza_. Floyd sees more boxes to the side and assumes he’s not the only one getting these heavenly gifts of food.

Once Flag even showed up with donuts, like, with a variety of all the jelly kind. Floyd seriously didn’t know whether to kiss the guy or punch him in his stupid pasty face for not being the asshole Floyd thought he was.

Then he’s talking about his daughter, like he actually goes out of his way to check up on her and make sure she’s okay. Like he actually genuinely gives a shit. A couple of times, he hands Floyd a hand written note from her, not one of those government sanctioned letters that needs to be specific size and arrive all crumpled and ripped, having been torn open and searched for weapons and terrorist info and powered poison—because obviously that’s what eleven year old girls generally send their incarcerated father in jail. Everything that arrives always has a feel of having been completely violated and defiled.

But the folded note from Flag is smooth and unwrinkled. It feels respected. He pulls it out of his breast pocket along with a couple of wrapped coconut candies only Zoe knew was his favourite. They’re still in their wrapper and everything.

Floyd’s so choked up he’s almost unable to bring his hand up to grab the stuff Flag is handing him.

And Flag keeps coming. Once or twice a week, always with food, always with news about Zoe. They make small talk that ranges from the weather and the current state of the economy to Flag’s obvious lack of sex life or actual friends outside of work. Flag constantly insults his current state of incarceration but never in a put-down sort of way. Sometimes Floyd mentions some of his many kills, which is something he never does with anyone. Flag would reciprocate with some of the weirder missions he’s ever been on. Floyd never knew official military missions had such bizarre names. Sometimes he’ll accidentally bring up the names of one or two of his dead teammates without realising it and Floyd realised what honour felt like then to have another person feel so at ease in your company. It’s pleasant and comforting, and Floyd never realised how nice it felt to be treated like an actual person.

Flag shows up with one of those White Castle thirty slider cases and a bottle of soda each and they talk about their usual stuff: libido, sex and Floyd offers to make moonshine for him if he can bring him the stuff. Then he goes and pisses him off with talks about Zoe and boys. In hindsight, the fact that Floyd was asking Flag to buy him a magazine for _next time_ , showed just how complacent he’d become in their routine and in Flag’s presence. The fact that Flag was the one who brought up the topic of _next time_ showed that he obviously felt the same way.

Looking at Flag’s stupid face through the opening gave Floyd flashbacks to the last time he stood at the door looking at a stupid face through the slot and the words just came out accidentally, unlike the first time around when it was intentional. A different emotion than he was used to seeing flashed across the usually stoic man’s face for a brief moment and then it was gone. But then _Colonel_ Flag called him Floyd and insulted his living facility but didn’t not promise to come back with the magazine next time, and Floyd felt a sense of happiness he never thought he’d ever feel again. And it was all because of some stupid white boy who had to go and actually act like a decent human being to a bunch of criminals.

A couple of days later, Satan comes knocking at his door with a mission.

They all get herded towards the back entrance of Belle Reve where an unfamiliar man in uniform is waiting for them. They got all their stuff in boxes lined up against the wall, but no Flag. That set off a signal in Floyd’s mind that something wasn’t right. After the subway incident with Enchantress they’d been called for one other mission that turned out to be bust, but then Flag had been the one to come get them, since he was pretty much the only person they’d actually listen to, besides Demona herself.

Nevertheless they all got ready and gathered up their shit.

He heard Harley greeting everyone with a chipper, “Good morning,” in the background. “You look particularly beautiful today, KC, did you do something new with your scales?”

Floyd is still pretty pissed that he lost his silver cross. Even though he isn’t exactly religious, that cross had been a present from his grandma, the only person in his family besides Zoe he ever felt genuine affection for. She’d since passed and Floyd was angry that he’d lost the one thing he had to remember her by. But he only had himself to blame.

He didn’t notice Harley skipping up behind him until she leaped onto his back.

“Flag didn’t show up today. Did you hurt his feelings? Didja? _Didja_? That wasn’t nice you know.”

“No I didn’t hurt his feelings, now get off, woman.”

The fact that even Harley noticed the change in routine meant that something was _really_ wrong.

Floyd didn’t feel any better about it when they arrived at the headquarters and all three Flag, Katana and GQ were nowhere to be found. Hell, even Beelzebub herself was absent.

“Nice of you to finally join us.”

He spoke to soon.

The devil himself wouldn’t have looked this good in the blood red of his enemies. Amanda Waller sauntered in, her heels clattering on the shiny walkway, her heart blacker than the tiles of the floor. If she even had one. Katana flanked her. And if Floyd didn’t think anything was wrong before, he definitely did now. There was no emotion on Katana’s masked face, but the aura around her was troubled and upset, almost livid, even her sword was emitting a bizarre black and red kind of vapour. Waller was as usual a steel wall wrapped in granite and covered in three layers of cement.

“Today’s mission is a straight forward assassination. You get in there, you kill them all, don’t ask questions, don’t stop for a snack, don’t show any mercy. I want them all dead before sun down today.”

“Where’s Flag?”

Floyd was saved from asking the question by Diablo.

“Yeah, it’s not like him to not show up,” KC added in a rumbling voice that shook mountains and parted seas.

“Colonel Flag is on his own mission right now. You’ll have Katana and Commander Jeffries with you today.”

“You know it’s not very nice to tell a lie. Lying is was _we_ do, dontca know?” Harley adds.

“Fuck Commander Jeffries, where the hell is Flag? What aren’t you telling us, lady?”

“That’s _boss_ to you, Lawton, and get your ass back in line. You know whatever I tell you, and whatever I tell you is all you need to know. Don’t forget the reason you’re all here and not rotting back in that hole where you deserve.”

Floyd shared a look with his squad and took a fearless step forward.

“Listen, lady, I don’t care who the hell you are. If you’re Satan’s incarnate, the second coming of Hades or if you do the devils’ taxes in your spare time. This may be your team, but this is _my_ squad, and if you mess with this squad you die. So if you’re trying to scare us into submission then you might as well just go ahead and push the button, otherwise why don’t you tell us what the fuck is really going on and where the hell is Flag, _boss_.”

Lo and behold, a miracle actually took place; because the Devil in her Prada shoes seemed at a loss of words for those ten seconds after Floyd finished his spiel. A muffled whisper washed over the room. Floyd didn’t know whether to be proud or to start running for his life. Without word, Waller turned to the audience in the room; everyone immediately focused their attention of their work and tried to pretend that they hadn’t been eavesdropping on the conversation.

If Floyd had any doubts prior to this as to the absolute terror Amanda Waller instilled in people, he no longer had them, because with a single word she emptied the room in under fifteen seconds. Now it was only Waller, Katana and his squad who occupied the vacated room.

“What the hell is this about, mate?” asked Boomerang whose presence Floyd had somehow completely forgotten about.

Waller turns to Katana and says, “Show them,” and the girl walks over to main controls of the largest screen in the room. The screen buzzed to life. Meanwhile no one still had any idea what the hell was going on.

“Look, I’m not sure what game you’re playin’ at—”

“Colonel Flag was attacked on his way home last night.”

A chorus of shocked disbelief and ‘what’s’ echoed around the room.

“What? Is—is he dead? What happened?” Floyd won’t ever admit to feeling like his heart dropped into his stomach at the news.

“Someone hurt our cupcake? We’ll _murder_ them.”

“He’s alive, but that’s why I had everyone leave the room because as far as the attackers know, they’ve succeeded and he’s dead and I want it to stay that way.”

“How is he?” asked KC, along with the others staring intently at Waller.

Floyd thinks he imagined the emotion he saw flittering across her face because of how fleeting it was, though he wouldn’t really be surprised if she did feel genuine concern about Flag. The guy had that quality about him. They’re the bad guys and even they liked him. He wasn’t sure what exactly the mission today was about but he imagined the two being related, if nothing else, given just how pitiless and vicious she’d been in giving the orders.

“I’m not going to lie, it’s bad,” she answered simply, indicating for them to focus their attention on screen, now showing a grainy black and white scene of a deserted street corner. Floyd assumes it’s from CCTV footage.

The street is mainly deserted, only a car or two driving past every couple of minutes or so. There’s a little kid crouched against the wall beside a newsstand and the proprietor leaning against the counter smoking a cigarette. Floyd can make out the basic outline of their faces through his eye piece but to make a clear identification is almost impossible.

Katana fast forwards a couple of minutes and stops at exactly the 8.42 P.M. timestamp. Some poor misguided soul wearing a Celtics’ cap was chatting with the newsstand owner for a while before paying for his purchase and disappearing off screen. Floyd only noticed because he hated the fucking Celtics; Lucky the Leprechaun was lucky indeed; lucky Floyd hadn’t gotten around to blowing his little Irish brains out. After a couple of beats, familiar figure walks into camera view, holding a plastic bag of what they assume to be groceries.

It’s Flag.

“Fuck,” he heard Diablo swear and he seconded that sentiment.

“Are we really gonna watch his attack on TV?” asked Boomerang incredulously.

“It’s better than me having to explain. You know exactly what went down and you’ll know exactly how to make the people responsible suffer.”

Floyd’s eyes follow Flag as he walks past the stand. Deep down he was hoping that this was some kind of joke, or that he could tell on-screen Flag to keep on moving and not stop, maybe if he did then the attack wouldn’t have happened, as ridiculous as that really sounded. Something in the rack catches Flag’s eye and he stops, turning around and reaching over to grab it. It’s a magazine and through Floyd’s Deadshot eye piece lense he sees exactly what magazine is in his hand.

Guns and Ammo magazine, the one with the Smith and Wesson M&P 10 rifle on the cover.

He brings a hand up to scrub at his face. _Fuck_.

He watches Flag pay for the magazine and looks about ready to walk off before the kid that had been previously crouched, leaning against the stand sudden run over towards him, Flag seems startled but recovers quickly and they exchange words that no one can make out. But the young boy, who looks to be about ten or eleven years old, reaches up and slides his hand into Flags’ and the man lets him. Floyd’s just really confused right now, and seems like everyone shares his sentiments exactly, if Boomerangs “I’m so fucking confused right now, mate,” was anything to go by.

Katana fast forwards a bit more and stops at the 8.48 P.M. timestamp. This time another person has joined the group, a woman and she and the boy are hugging while Flag looks on. The woman stands up and gives Flag a hug which he returns in with what would be considered a hilariously awkward manner on any other day. Soon she grabs the boys’ hand and they start walking away up the street in the opposite direction Flag is going. From the angle of the camera, Floyd can now just make out the back of the woman and the kids head, but as she starts nearing the edge of the CCTV surveillance zone about ten meters from Flag who was walking in the other direction, she suddenly stops dead in her tracks and turns around. She obviously called out something to Flag because he turns as well, this time the camera is on the back of his head and on the woman’s face. Floyd zooms in on her, trying to see if he can catch any of what’s being said. Her lips start moving and Floyd’s trying to decipher what she said, when all of a sudden Flag drops the bag he’s holding and reaches behind his back to grab his gun, cocking it in front of him aimed at the woman. But he doesn’t get the chance to fire because they see two blinding flashes somewhere off screen behind him and two shots hit Flag square in the back, sending him crumpling to his knees.

Harley shouts out and Floyd notices Katana diverting her attention away from the screen.

“They shot him in the back!” growled KC, disgust clearly in his tone. Floyd feels sick to his stomach. He’s seen people get shot thousands of times; he’s the one doing the shooting in most of them, hell, his entire character motif revolves around guns and shooting and he’s more than a little accustomed to shooting people in the back from afar. But _his_ work is art. His bullets paints a gorgeous picture in the air before it meets its mark. This one was crass, ugly and violent. Not only was this someone he knew and liked, someone they all liked and respected. Watching him get taken down by cowards who didn’t even have the balls to look him in the face when they shot him…that was disgusting and a disgrace. It made Floyd wanted to get out there and start killing people.

By this time the woman and child had disappeared and a couple of new faces had come out of the woodwork; the proprietor of the newsstand and a previously unnoticed homeless man in the corner of the screen. Two people with their guns cocked appear from the bottom left of the screen, the ones who had shot Flag in the back.

“This wasn’t just an attack, it was an ambush,” Floyd says, watching as the scene unfolds before his eyes. “And it wasn’t random, Flag was the intended target.”

“How do you know?” Waller asks. Floyd’s not sure whether she asked because she didn’t know, or because she already knew.

“The woman with the child. I saw her lips moving, she said _‘thank you, Captain Flag’_ just before Flag pulled his gun out on her.”

Waller swears under her breath, Diablo says something in Spanish that Floyd was sure didn’t mean kittens, cotton candy and fun. Boomerang says something in Australian that definitely didn’t mean kittens, cotton candy and fun. KC just growled and deep, rumbling sound that truthfully freaked the crap out of everyone. And Harley…she was far too quiet, her face was uncharacteristically serious and the look in her eyes was focused and unblinking as she stared at the screen, her gaze zeroed in on Flag. Floyd thought out of all the scary people in the room, at this moment, Harley looked the scariest.

Floyd thought shit couldn’t get any worse and he regretted that thought the moment it came to mind, because the two guys came up from behind Flag and grabbed him by the elbows, yanking him up roughly while he was still on his knees. None of their faces were facing the screen enough this time for Floyd to see what they were talking about or to even manage identification, so watching it unfold was like silent movie hell without the cards not knowing what the fuck was going on. But something was obviously going on because one of the guys backhands Flag in the face, giving him enough opportunity to grab one of the guys holding him up, flipping him over his shoulder, grabbing his dropped gun and firing a shot hitting the faux-homeless guy in the knee.

Floyd could hear a chorus of cheers going around the room, respect towards Flag for not going down without a fight.

They cheered too soon.

The men managed to wrestle the gun out of Flags hand but not before he got in a couple of good punches of his own. Then the third man came up and slammed the butt of the gun into the side of Flag’s face, disorienting him, before he cocked it again and fired three shots almost point blank into Flag’s chest.

The air stilled in the room as they watched Flag go down and this time he didn’t get back up, a dark shadowy pool slowly growing around him like an ominous halo.

“That’s enough,” Waller ordered and Katana immediately pulled the video she hadn’t been watching from the screen, leaving it blank and leaving the room drowned in tense silence.

Harley had her hands up covering her mouth; Diablo was swearing in a mix of Spanish, English and what sounded like fucking German. KC was clenching and unclenching his enormous fist, teeth barred. Boomerang reverted back to his native Australian language which before this Floyd was sure was indeed English, but now he wasn’t actually certain.

Floyd runs his palms over his scalp; the picture of calm on the outside, but on inside he was seething. “He’s alive?”

“For now, yes”

“How alive?”

Waller didn’t give him shit for his twenty-one questions and that alone was a bad sign. “Barely. GQ is at the hospital with him, keeping me updated on his condition. Right now he’s still in surgery and chances are that isn’t about to change for another couple of hours.”

“His injuries?”

“The two bullets barely missed his heart, but punctured both lungs before they went on to play tag inside his abdominal cavity. One of the bullets fired from behind hit his spine and the other one came far _too_ close to doing the same. The doctors don’t yet know the extent of the damage.”

“Fuck! _Fuckin’_ fuck!” slamming both fists on the table before him, Floyd couldn’t think of anything better to say. He was fucking livid. How dare these assholes mess with a member of his squad? Who do they think they fucking are messing with Flag? He and the others were criminals, they have always been criminals and they will always be criminals and they answered to absolutely no one. That was until Flag rolled up with his pasty white boys face and Viking hillbilly accent. He earned their trust and earned their respect and in turn he showed them equal amount of trust and respect back. But most importantly he treated them with humanity. He brought Floyd good food from the outside that he hadn’t gotten to eat in ages and kept an eye on his daughter without being asked to. He treated KC and Diablo like humans who had hobbies and interests and brought them books and music he obviously put a lot of thought into, even though it was money out of his own pocket and he really didn’t have to. He earned Harley’s affection and never once abused it or used it against her. He let her call him cupcake because she couldn’t be with her own _puddin’_.

He still didn’t really know how to deal with Boomerang, but then again, none of them did.

Flag was a _good guy_ by every definition of the word. Far better than any of them could ever dream to be.

If someone messed with the squad, it was personal. But they messed with _Flag_ , and they were about to get hell fire rained down on their asses.

“What do we know?” Floyd puts on his professional face. It’s the face only few people have ever gotten to see, and no one would ever _want_ to see, because it’s the face they look up at seconds before he buries a polished bullet right between their eyes.

“Up until just now, we thought we knew everything. But you telling us that the people involved knew Flag by name, that changes everything,” Waller paced up and down the room, hands clasped behind her back, outwardly she was the picture of calm collectiveness but in her eyes Floyd could see that he was just as angry as the rest of them. This was a personal attack, against the squad and against her. “We’ve gotten many reports of threats being made against people involved in the Taskforce X project so our immediate assumption was that this was somehow connected. Believe it or not there are people who aren’t too keen on a bunch of violent criminals being called up to protect their country.”

Someone scoffed in the background but everyone was listening intently.

“Could it be someone from Flag’s military background?” KC asks, and it’s a logical query.

“What do you know about Operation Viking Snatch?” Floyd asks, it was one of the names Flag had mentioned in passing and he’d immediately latched onto it because of the name alone.

Waller snapped around to level him with an intense glare. “What do _you_ know about Operation Viking Snatch? How the hell do you even know that name?”

“Is anyone else here as confused as I am?” Boomerang asked bewilderedly and all three of them, Diablo, KC and Harley slowly raised their hand in agreement. Floyd thinks he sees a fourth, almost unsure hand rising from Katana’s direction.

“Believe it or not there’s not that much to talk about over lunch when you’re in a state penitentiary for the criminally insane. Flag mentioned it once, and I just remembered because it sounds like some dirty Swedish porno,”—the word porno immediately tweaked Boomerang’s interest—“he didn’t mention anything about it specifically, but I remember him saying that even though the mission wasn’t a failure, it just always left a bad taste in his mouth. Like the keep a gun underneath your pillow kind of bad taste.”

Waller’s gaze on him was so intense he had to break eye contact and look away.

“Katana, get everyone back in here, we’ve got work to do and assassins to annihilate.”

Annihilate was exactly what they were going to do. But before the minnows could arrive back into the room, there was something that Waller had said that was still bugging him.

“You said two bullets, but we all saw three shots. Don’t get me wrong, I’m mad as hell, but from a hitman’s point of view missing the target from that close range is so fucking unprofessional.” That was the Deadshot part of him talking, because _Floyd_ was glad for their piss poor aim.

“Who said they missed?” Waller replied coolly, but didn’t elaborate. Floyd was ninety-nine percent sure he’d be able to get a shot off right then, right between that evil woman’s cold dead eyes before she could even consider reaching for the detonator on her phone. But right now, they needed her to get Flag’s attackers, so instead took a deep breath and counted down from ten. “All three shots found their target, but only two broke skin. The third bullet would have hit him dead center in the heart if it wasn’t for this.”

For a moment there, Floyd forgot how to breathe. He could feel the eyes of his squad on the back of his head but he just couldn’t tear his eyes away from the familiar silver cross Waller held in her hand. The chain still glinted under the reflection of the above head lights, but the cross itself was charred and dented right down the middle, crusted over with dried and still drying blood. A black, flattened out bullet was still embedded in the center of the cross where it had impacted.

“Well fuck me dead,” said Boomerang and everyone agreed.

“What—Wh—How? I lost that during the fight.”

“I believe that one of the clean-up crew found it along with Boomerang’s toy and Flag said he was going to pass it along.”

“Well fuck me dead and bury me pregnant,” said Boomerang in an astounded manner.

“What, did you think your little magical unicorn flew all the way back to Belle Reve and all the way back into your cell on its own, sugar? Which would have been _awesome_ by the way. Wouldn’t it have been awesome, huh?” chipped Harley, latching onto the person closest to her, which happened to be Diablo.

“Well…”

“You got issues, ese,” said Diablo disapprovingly, not at all fazed by Harley clinging onto his arm and resting her head on his shoulder.

“You need time to find these guys, right?” asked Floyd.

“Now that we seem to be on the right track, it shouldn’t take too long. A couple of hours at least.”

“We want to go see Flag.”

“No,” said Waller, leaving absolutely no room for discussion.

“I wanna go see Flag too. Come on guys, let’s all go see him. I’m sure he misses us already,” said Harley, jumping to her feet and dragging Diablo along with her.

“I’m in,” said Boomerang in agreement, getting to his feet with KC following suit.

“You think you’re going to just traipse in to the hospital? In case you’ve forgotten, you’re a bunch of wanted murderers and you have a seven-foot tall half Crocodile man with you. You think even I’m going to let you out of this room, let alone out of the building unsupervised? Then you’re stupider than I ever thought any of you to be.”

“Then take us there,” said Floyd, reasoning instead of arguing for once. “There’s still time to kill before we’re going out there. Flag’s a vital member of this team, this squad. I’m sure even your ice cold heart can understand that. You get us that info, and we’ll get you’re the people responsible. _But_ …we just want Katana. I don’t know this peon Commander Johnsson—” Jeffries, Waller amends, not that he gives a crap—“cause if he gets in my way I’ll blow his fucking brains out.”

Waller levelled him with her trademark soul sapping stare but this time he didn’t back down.

“Fine.”

And with that simple one worded answer, Floyd thought that this must be what it felt like to win the battle of wits against the devil herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Operation Viking Snatch is apparently the name of a real military mission. Also no offense intended to Vikings, hillbillies and Celtic fans alike.


	3. Highway to Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: scenes of violence, dark subject matter and casual murder ahead. Also mature language, but you know that already.

None of them really knew what it felt like to be in a hospital before. At least a hospital for the physical injuries instead of the mental ones. But it really was as cold and unnerving as people made it out to be. Why did hospital walls have to be so _white_? Would it really have killed them to have a little splash of colour, like red maybe, to camouflage the blood splatters. Or blue. Blue always made everything better. Maybe pink, hell even fucking black, any colour felt like it would have been better than all this pasty ass white.

But here they were, trudging down the emptied hospital corridor flanked by a dozen or so men in black suits, who were in turn flanked by another dozen or so men in army camo. Waller had made sure that Flag would be moved to the cleared out fifth floor of the hospital where they’d be able to control all the comings and goings, in case the killers somehow found out that their target hadn’t been completely neutralized.

Flag still wasn’t out of surgery and Waller had only GQ there out in the open waiting for him, as to not arouse suspicion. But secretly, one out of every five people who walked in and out the front door of the hospital was an agent in disguise and she had snipers positioned on every rooftop within five miles of the hospital.

The men in the army camo spread out across every accessible window while the guys in suits covered every possible exit.

Floyd wanted to tell them that they were wasting their time. _None_ of them had any intention of leaving that hospital until they saw Flag or until Waller called them with a target.

The waiting room door opened suddenly as they were getting settled in, raising the stress level in the room by three-fold. But it was just GQ who walked in. He looked like something the cat dragged it—right after it got run over by a car, left out in the sun for a week then shovelled onto the sidewalk; dishevelled, bedraggled, wrinkled and eyes bloodshot like he’d just been summoning Bloody Mary three times in the hospital mirror.

“Man, I’m really glad to see you guys you have no idea,” he says and Floyd sure that isn’t an understatement given his current state.

“How is he?” Diablo asks, standing up and walking over to GQ and pulling the half dead guy over to one of the seats.

“It’s really bad, dude. You have no idea how fucking stressful the day’s been. The colonel’s been in surgery since like 10 P.M. last night; I don’t even know what time it is right now. But they had to stop at about 2 A.M. because his blood pressure dropped dangerously low. The nurse told me that they just finished and they’re keeping an eye on him in recovery for a while before moving him to the ICU. I haven’t slept for fucking shit since like Sunday I swear I am about to go out and murder the people who did this. You guys know what happened right?”

“We saw the CCTV footage. It’s seriously fucked up.”

“Don’t I know it, man? Waller called me at home just after it happened; I had just enough time to get to the hospital to see him before they wheeled him into surgery. It’s really serious, man. I heard the nurses saying that the doctors are concerned that he might be paralyzed.”

“ _Fuck_.”

Someone punched a wall and they didn’t have to turn around to know that it was KC because entire building shook like there was a minor earthquake.

“Why aren’t you down there with him though,” asked Floyd, “Wasn’t Waller concerned about the people trying to kill him not finding out he’s still alive?”

“They relieved me. She’s got undercover agents covering the entire floor and snipers on all the roofs. They’re gonna bring him up to this floor when he’s stable enough to be moved. But man, they fucked him up real good. I’ve never seen Colonel Flag that hurt before.”

Floyd didn’t need any more reason to be pissed, but he got it. He was torn between wanting to stay here and wanting to march right back down to HQ and hound Waller’s squints into overdrive. He loved killing people. He loved doing it for money. But this time it was the euphoria of looking into the eyes of the people who shot his friend in the back and watch their life slowly seep away. That was the image keeping him going.

Until a female voice cuts in to the conversation, calling out _‘Captain Steven Rogers’_ and attracting all the attention towards her. GQ explained that that was the alias he was registered under because they couldn’t use his real name. It was one of the doctors who was treating Flag and she was there to tell them that he’d been moved to the ICU on that floor and that currently he was getting settled in. If she was unnerved at the sight of them, only her eyes darting from one of them to the other and the rigidness in which she held herself was the indication. She left after telling them that a nurse would be over shortly to take them to see Flag.

KC cracked his knuckles the entire time. Every single crack and pop sounded like human bones snapping in half. No doubt that was the soundbite he was currently going for. Harley had moved on from Diablo and was currently draped almost bonelessly over Boomerang’s shoulders. Diablo and GQ were sitting silently side by side on one of the rows of plastic chairs in the waiting room.

Floyd was _pissed_. He tried not to let it show, his face was the picture of serenity and apathy but on the inside he was a hurricane of rage and fury. Flag was a good guy. Even people who barely understood the meaning of the word acknowledged the fact that he was good. It didn’t matter that he had a kill count to rival theirs and he’s been on more than a fair share of morally ambiguous missions under orders, he was good to _them_ and that made him a good person.

Floyd watched the people watching them. The agents in black who stood with their backs to the doors, watching all of them with obvious disgust. The one guarding the door GQ had entered from earlier had the most ridiculous crew-cut Gumby hairstyle Floyd had ever seen, and he’s killed a lot of people with ridiculous hairstyles. Sometimes their hairstyles alone were the deciding factor in whether he took up a job or not. Crew-cut Gumby noticed his eyes looking and his hand slowly trailed closer towards his firearm.

None of them had their weapons, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t put Agent Gumby on his ass without even breaking a sweat.

“You all can go see him now,” said a new voice and Gumby once again became an irrelevant entity in the room.

Everyone leapt to their feet and followed the nurse out Agent Gumby’s assigned door.

If being in a hospital was unnerving, being in an empty hospital was twice that. Scary even and Floyd was standing next to a seven-foot tall, five hundred pound Crocodile man. The nurse was in the front, leading the way, the squad and GQ following closely behind and flanked by two dozen or so armed men in black and military men alike.

The nurse herself was far too calm in their company to be anyone other than an undercover agent, but was obviously experienced in her job and the layout of the hospital meaning that she was either an agent disguised as a nurse, or a nurse who was also a secret government agent. It explained how Waller could have this much pull in the hospital to get this kind of treatment for Flag. It also showed that underneath those layers of cold apathy and heartlessness, she truly did care for Flag, or at the very least, she still considered him useful enough to be kept alive.

They stopped abruptly in front of a nurses’ station, where the staff, all four of them—three ladies and one guy—had the same cool detached air about them as the nurse leading the way. The station was directly in front of an opened door hospital room where a flurry of activity was taking place. Floyd could hear the sounds of machines, all the mechanical beepings and hissings and he felt his heart drop to his gut. The squad was silent around him as they watched a handful of doctors and medical staffs slowly trickle out of the room. He felt Harley quietly sidle up beside him and slide her hand into his. He let her.

The doctor they’d met earlier approached them as the rest of the medical team besides the nurses dispersed.

“How is he?”

The obviously exhausted doctor massaged the bridge of her nose before answering. “I’m not going to sugar coat it for you. Colonel Flag is in very bad shape. The bullets made one hell of a mess of his insides. We managed to save his lung and his liver, but he’s lost a spleen and a kidney and almost four pints of blood. He’s lucky we got to him when we did. However, one of the bullets hit his spine and the other missed by just millimetres. We’ve done all we can to repair the injury but there is no way to tell the extent of the damage until he wakes up. If he survives the next forty-eight hours then he may have a chance, but I promise it’s going to be a rough couple of days.”

“Thank you, doctor,” said GQ. The doctor spared them a sympathetic smile and took her leave.

“ _Hijo de puta!_ ” Diablo swore.

Floyd didn’t know that meant, but he agreed. This situation was…well, it was fucked, completely and utterly. It felt like a lifetime ago he was having sliders with Flag at Belle Reve and talking about libido and moonshine and now to be in this situation where his friend might be dying? Yeah, he said friend, because that’s what Flag was to him and that’s what Flag was to all of them. A friend and a vital and irreplaceable member of the squad.

GQ clapped him on the shoulder and motioned towards the room looming in the background. “Go ahead, Lawton.”

Floyd didn’t really want to go ahead, he’d never admit it to anyone but he was terrified. One of the upsides to not having friends was that he never would have found himself in this situation, if he’d never have met Flag or the squad or Lucifer in human form. He would never have had to know what true fear felt like; he’d faced the fear of losing his daughter to the system, but this fear of losing his friend to death, that was far more permanent. But then he thought, Flag hadn’t asked for this either. He had just been heading home, he stopped to buy something for someone he considered a friend and they attacked him without mercy.

He didn’t remember moving, but all of a sudden he finds himself standing at the entrance of the room, looking in at the still occupant on the bed inside. There are far too many wires and far too many tubes; he can’t even hear himself think over the steady beeping of the heart monitor assuring him that Flag is still alive and the intimidating hiss of the ventilator currently breathing for him. He didn’t know what half these machines did or what all those drips were for, but they were the things keeping Flag alive and that was all he needed to know.

GQ walked past him and over to the bed, standing at attention on Flag’s right. Slowly his clasped hands unfurled and he reached over to grasp Flag’s limp hand, mindful of all the IV’s and the clip-on monitor on his finger. “Hey, colonel. The squad’s here,” he tells him and Floyd feels foolish for looking over at Flag and expecting to receive a reply or any sort of acknowledgement.

Harley and the rest of the group slid in beside him.

“When’s he going to wake up?” Harley asks, but Floyd feels far too emotional to give a verbal answer.

“Not for a while probably, Harley,” Diablo answers for him. “Colonel’s lucky to be alive.”

“I want the people who did this to die,” she adds, eyes never leaving Flag as she spoke.

“They will.”

KC pushes past the three of them and walks up to Flag’s side, opposite GQ.

“I liked the album you brought,” he said, gently covering Flag’s hand with his own gigantic one. “Just wanted you to know that.”

Harley sidles up next to him, elbowing a room for self between him and one of the many machines lined up against the wall. “You owe me a coffee date, colonel cupcake,” she says, bending over to rest her cheek on his chest, one arm circling his stomach. “It isn’t nice to break promises, ya’ know?”

Floyd, Diablo and Boomerang also approach, creating a protective barrier around Flag’s bed. The agreement they made was unspoken. The people who did this were going to die _slow_.

As if on que, the devil herself spoke.

“We know who did this and we know where they are.”

No other words were needed. Everyone slowly filed out after sparring one last look at their fallen colonel. Diablo and Boomerang patted him on the leg as they left and Harley planted a kiss on his cheek, leaving a faint red smudge. KC brought up the rear, leaving GQ and Floyd and Waller standing expectantly by the door. She spared a lingering look on Flag before she followed the others into the hall, giving Floyd and GQ some privacy.

“I’m going with you,” GQ said.

“No. I need you here. Waller wants to believe that the people who did this still think he’s dead. But I know that by now they’ve already realised that they fucked up. I trust that woman as far as I can throw her and with the weight of all that discontent, I can say that it isn’t far. I trust the people who work for her even less. They’re probably coming and I don’t trust any of those agents to not fuck up. We’ve got Katana with us, but we need you here to protect him.”

GQ didn’t look happy with the order, but he understood it. “Alright. I got this.”

“I know you do. You’re a member of this squad,” he said, clasping GQ on the shoulder but then turns to Flag, asking GQ for a minute with the colonel and receiving an affirmative nod in reply.

Floyd immediately walks around to the side of the bed, standing by Flag’s shoulder. He can see the thick dressing on his chest from under the crisp hospital gown flecked with fresh specks of blood and the painful looking tube inserted into the side of his chest. Half his face is black and blue from just beneath his hairline to below his cheekbone and a vertical cut crusted with blood across his brow from where those guys had pistol whipped him in the face. There’s a thin clear tube snaking out one nostril. The plastic contraption and the straps holding Flag’s breathing tube in place are blue, so is the hose leading from the tube to the ventilator and Floyd regrets asking for more blue when he walked in.

He hunches down slightly to hover protectively over Flag, looking intently at his lax face, completely unaware of the tizzy he’s put his squad mates in. “Don’t you die on me, Flag, you hear me? I will drop like a hundred ton elephant down into hell, drag your white Viking ass back up here and kill you myself.” He reaches into the pocket of his suit and pulls out the mangled, blood crusted cross and lays it on the mattress beside Flag’s pillow. “This is for luck, man, even though you know I don’t believe in that crap.  But there’s seriously no other explanation for what the fuck happened back there. Maybe you really are the luckiest son of a bitch alive.” But his current lack of consciousness would probably argue that fact. Which is why he needs all the luck he could get. “And _this_ ,” he adds, pulling out a second object from his pocket. He takes Flag’s hand in his and turns it palms up and places a single, shiny bullet right in the center; slowly wrapping Flag’s fingers around the shiny bit of metal and placing the clenched fist on the chest rising and falling with every mechanical breath. “This is a _promise_. That we’re going to get the sons of bitches that did this to you. So you better fight this, man. You better not give up. You hear me?”

The only answer he received was the rhythmic beeps and hisses of the machines keeping Flag alive, but that was answer enough.

He was going to fuck some shit up today.

And fuck up some shit they did.

Waller explained it simply enough. Operation Viking Snatch was a simple, straight forward counter-insurgent mission to disrupt weapons smuggling back in 2007. The smuggler was detained and the cache of weapons was confiscated. _Captain_ Flag back then was leader of the reconnaissance team sent in to do surveillance. To this day, no one knows exactly what happened; any and all mention of the incident had been completely struck from official records. But what they did know what that something or someone had fucked up badly and the smuggler’s wife and his four year old daughter ended up being killed in the crossfire as a result. Flag had taken full responsibility for the shooting even though none of the bullets pulled from the victims came back a match to his gun. But neither Flag nor his team faced any real repercussions for their actions and the incident was treated like it never happened.

“That shit’s loco, man.”

 “You think Flag really shot those people, mate?”

“No I don’t,” said Floyd quickly. “You all know Flag, does that seem like the type of thing he’d do, accidentally or not? You think he’d be that careless? No, someone somewhere fucked up and Flag almost paid for it with his life.”

Waller had narrowed down the suspects hideout to a local gang owned safe house just a few minutes away from Flag’s apartment and an address search of one of the suspects they’d managed to identify from the CCTV footage turned out to be an apartment just a floor below Flags’. If they hadn’t already suspected that the shooters were targeting Flag specifically, they were sure about it now. Waller had sent a team to the apartment address to apprehend “with force” everyone and anyone found on the premises.

So now here they were, Deadshot—because he wasn’t Floyd right now, he was the merciless hitman out there living up to his reputation. He didn’t want long range kills and fancy bullet trajectories, he wanted to look those people in the eye and blow their faces out the back of their skulls. Harley Quinn, she wasn’t smiling or playing cutesy psychotic air head today. Her eyes were cool and calculating, today everyone saw a piece of Dr. Harleen Quinzel who made a living facing off and trying to fix the most dangerous sociopaths and nutjobs alive; hands clutching both ends of the bat she was balancing on her shoulders. She was standing silently to the side, watching the people entering and exiting the establishment which was currently fronting a detox spa, which in hindsight was appropriate. The world was about to get a real good detoxing today.

Killer Croc was psyching himself up in the back, chanting some sort of cannibalistic sounding hymn like a mantra. Diablo was playing around with some little fire men in his hands, making them screech in pain before disappearing in a wisp of black smoke. Boomerang had produced a six-pack of beer out of fucking nowhere and was now chugging it down religiously. Katana was the only one beside Deadshot, crouched low on one knee, watching the shop lot from their position on the roof of the building across the street.

“Korosu,” she says and Deadshot isn’t sure whether she’s talking to him or to her sword, Soultaker that she has unsheathed on her knee. Either way, he’s just glad not being the one she’s talking _about_. Out of all the people present, it’s the two ladies who are saying and doing the least but being the most terrifying, as demonstrated by Commander Jefferson or whatever his name was who was currently off to the side trying not to shit his pants every time Harley so much as twitched. Waller made him come along “for supervision” or some shit, but Deadshot had warned that he would not be held responsible if a bullet somehow found its way into which ever crevice on Commander Jacobsen’s being.

Waller’s voice in his ear piece informs him that one of the injured suspects have been sucessfully apprehended at his apartment and the remaining four, including the woman, are among the four people who have been positively identified and seen entering the premises

“It’s go time, people.”

The building they were perched on had close if not direct roof access to all the buildings going up and down the block and was directly across from the one the detox spa was subletting. The plan was for Boomerang and him to flank the front entrance and Diablo the back and to incapacitate the criminals exciting. Everyone in the building had been positively identified as wanted criminals and dangerous gang members. Harley and Katana would rappel down and enter through the side windows and KC would smash his way in through the ceiling. They’d be boxed in with nowhere to go but straight into Deadshot’s line of fire. “Easy peasy Japaneasy,” as Boomerang had put it. Floyd flung an arm out just in time to prevent Katana from slicing his tongue, his patchy beard and most of his face off.

The plan worked like a charm. The sight of KC, Harley with her bat and Katana and her sword was enough to empty the whole building within minutes. Boomerang incapacitated those who were obvious criminals and had obvious gang ties by aiming his twin boomerangs, whom he'd named Lucinda and Julia Gillard, at their legs. Deadshot didn’t want these small fries; he wanted the four people responsible. They could hear screaming coming from the back of the building and raze of fireballs lighting up the block. But knowing Diablo and his repentant nature and refusal to take anymore life, they were sure that no one was actually dead despite signs to the contrary. Deadshot took them out one by one; shot to the knee, to the thigh, to the groin, until he heard KC’s booming voice calling him from inside, but by that time there was no one left to exit.

They reconvened on the second floor, walking past the disgustingly cheesy décor into the back room, finding a secret door opened behind a shelf full of bizarrely labelled stuff like anal cleanser and douche soaps. Deadshot wanted to kill all of them on principal alone.

“Kochi da!” he heard Katana’s voice, following the sound into a dark room in the back where Harley, KC and Katana had four people on their knees in a half circle in the middle of the room.

“You really fucked up, ese.”

“Your friend killed my wife and my daughter! He deserved to die.” They identified the speaker as the newsstand proprietor in the footage. “My wife was innocent and my daughter was just a baby, they had nothing to do with anything and they died and your government did nothing!”

“Flag didn’t shoot your family.”

“He may not have pulled the trigger but he’s just as guilty as the people who did,” the man scoffed, staring Deadshot straight in the eye. “We have no regrets for what we did; only that he didn’t suffer more before he died. So what will you do with us now? Take us to your government? Throw us in jail? They will sweep this incident under the rug like they do everything, it does not matter. I have waited years for this moment, and it has finally come, I have no regrets. I have done what I came here to do and you good guys you do what you must. I am not afraid of you or your government.”

Deadshot shared a look between each member of his squad, gently caressing the loaded guns on his wrist guard as he paced back and forth in front of the four people kneeling before him.

“I have a daughter too,” he says. “If anything ever happened to her I would upturn every rock on this earth to find the people responsible.”

The man raised his head to look at him. “So you know?”

“I do know and I understand your anger. But the difference is that Rick Flag is my friend. He’s the kind of person who would be right beside me as I upturned the world looking for the person responsible; he’d be by my side when I killed the piece of shit that put his hand on my baby. That’s the kind of person he is. What happened to you is terrible, but you took out your anger and your revenge on the wrong person. You ambushed him in the street and gunned him down like a dog and that in _my_ book is unforgiveable. You mess with Flag, you mess with us all.”

The man now looked much less certain, sharing a nervous look between the two other men and woman in his company. “You cannot do anything to us,” he said, more in a self-reassuring way than as a statement. “Your government has laws!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, sugar,” said Harley, sashaying up beside Deadshot, twirling her bat around like a baton, “Cause we’re the bad guys, silly. Killing people is what we do.”

Only now did genuine fear appear on all their faces and they looked nervously around at the people they were at the mercy of.

“Also,” said Deadshot, arming his magnums with a threatening click. “The thing you came all the way down here to do? You failed. Flag is still alive,” he said and he took genuine comfort in the look of absolute shock and rage that flashed across the mans’ face before he fired off four successive shots, dropping all of them to the ground at the same time, their faces frozen in an expression of surprise and blood dripping from the hole dead center of their foreheads.

No one moved, until KC said, “Get Waller,” and they left the scene of the carnage without a backward glance.

Commander Johanssen was waiting for them in the car outside, a team of agents in cars with black tinted windows pulling up as they walked out of the building.

“Boomerang, you, Diablo and KC are in the car with Agent Gumby,” he instructed, pointing towards the second black car in the line. The disgruntled agent standing in all his crew-cut Gumby glory at the ready beside the driver’s side door. He vaguely noticed Boomerang confusedly mouthing ‘Gumby?’ to Diablo who shrugged before he, Harley and Katana entered the lead vehicle. “Take us to Waller,” he said, completely ignoring the dumbfounded look on Commander Joshuasteinberg’s face.

“It’s Jeffries,” the offended officer said, “And I don’t take orders from the likes—”

“Take us to Waller or I will fucking shoot you in one testicle.”

“You heard the man,” he said quickly, leaning back into his seat looking not unlike someone who’d been stomped in the nads with a pair of overpriced golf shoes.

The ride back to the headquarters was silent and tense. Commander Janowski was sulking in the passenger seat. They’d done exactly what they set out to do. The people responsible were dead so why did he still have a bad feeling clawing at his gut? These people were obviously not from around here so how did they find Flag. The attack was carefully planned and impeccably executed as much as Floyd hated to admit. They caught Flag completely unaware and took him down, _the_ Flag who could spot a trap from a mile away. How job was to figure out and prevent exactly that kind threat and yet he obviously didn’t see this one coming at all. It was just a sequence of dumb luck on Flag’s side that he actually made it out of the initial attack alive, if just barely.

The room was cleared of unauthorized parties when they arrived. Floyd hated to admit it but for once it seemed like he and Lucifer were actually on the same page because her expression was pinched and hard when they walked in. Everyone could feel the tension brewing and no one even dared to make a comment.

“Why does everyone look like someone just donkey punched their Nan?” Everyone except Boomerang.

“Where was Flag stationed before this?” Floyd asked. If nothing else, Boomerang was always their go-to guy for breaking the tension in the room.

“That’s classified,” answered Waller coldly.

“What was the last mission he was on before he got stuck with us?”

“That’s classified.”

“Does he have any family? Friends, outside work?”

“That’s classified.”

“What country was he in three months ago?”

“I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Lawton, but you’re really going to make me repeat myself again?”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Floyd, slamming a fist on the table. “Everything about him is classified. Is his name even Rick Flag? Is he even a US citizen, he could actually be a Canadian for all we know. Probably no one knows besides you. My question is how did they know that he’d be here, _now_? I read the report Commander Jabbawockees gave me. The attackers moved into Flag’s apartment a week, _one week_ , after Midway City. They knew he was living there, they knew which route he took walking home and what time. Even the most piss-ant government agent knows to deter from routine so that bad guys can’t do exactly what these people did to Flag, I know, I’ve tracked a few of them myself. Flag is a Special Ops guy, this kind of constant vigilance is in his nature. My point is, it takes a lot of time and patience to get this kind of a feel of someone’s routine, or rather, their non-routine and these people had a location and a plan, that is if they didn’t already _know_ where he lived and where he hung out and what route he took home. If it wasn’t because of that CCTV _all_ of them would have gotten away with it too.”

Everyone was silent as they tried to process Floyd’s words. He wasn’t wrong. Even Waller was silent.

“Well lookie who Matlock-ed the shit out of that mystery, eh?”

“God, would your filthy Australian ass just shut the fuck up, for like five minutes? Please!”

“Alright, mate. But only because you said please. I’m nice like that,” he puffed out his chest and tugged at the lapels of his worn out coat and took a seat besides Katana, who automatically scooted down a couple of seats in reply.

“Are you insinuating what I think you’re insinuating?” Waller asked him crossly, but she wasn’t calling down the might of the entire US government on his ass yet which meant that she had to be considering it as well.

“If by insinuating, you mean that I mean that someone in your office just monumentally screwed up? Then, yes, I am insinuating what you insinuated I was insinuating.”

KC shared a look between Diablo and Boomerang, and Boomerang’s eyebrows conveyed enough confusion for the three of them. Katana was on the side muttering something only she could hear while confusedly ticking off her fingers. Only Harley’s smile never wavered as she sidled up front and center, between Floyd and Waller.

“So much insinuating is making everyone’s head hurt,” she says with a knowing grin. “Maybe we should start imparting next. By imparting I mean as in information, because if Boom Boom’s eyebrows get any higher they’re going to get arrested for possession of an illegal substances. Like you know, in my professional opinion, we should share with the rest of the class the fact that there’s a mole in our midst.” After a beat she turns to KC. “Moles are definitely ugly on the outside though.”

Floyd and Waller take a long hard look at Harley for a moment. “How do you know that?” asked Floyd, once again feeling like he truly didn’t know anything about Harley Quinn at all.

“Know about what?” she asks, but there’s a twinkle in her eye when she turns away and skips over to KC, dropping down to sit on his lap and circling her arms around his neck.

“I think that all creatures are created equally beautiful,” KC says when Harley’s all snuggled in. “But damn moles are ugly as fuck. Especially those star-nosed ones.”

“Blegh yes! And naked mole rats! They’re just the worst.”

“Nah, man, those blob fish though, seriously—”

Whatever Diablo was serious about Floyd didn’t know because he immediately tuned out the conversation.

“So what’s our plan of attack?”

Waller’s asking _him_ and Floyd’s pretty sure a couple of alternate universes just imploded from the sheer enormity of the situation. It takes Floyd about a minute to come up something more than “Unh?” because, seriously, he doesn’t think _this_ has ever happened before. Even in the case of the squad, Flag had said that Taskforce X was pretty much approved and a done deal the moment Amanda Waller put it together, the people doing the approval just didn’t know it at the time.

What was their plan of attack?

“Nothing,” Floyd said. “We do nothing. Let the mole come to us. What happened to the other shooter, the one who was at the apartment?”

“He’s dead,” Waller said coolly. “He bled out before we could interrogate him.”

“Fuck.”

“You think this pendejo’s gonna try again though? With all the security around Flag and GQ there?”

“We’ve got to assume that he will,” said Waller.

“I’m not going back to Belle Reve until we’ve caught this guy and if you’ve got a problem with that you’re going to have to drag me back there in a body bag,” said Floyd, staring down Waller. “Now we,”—he motioned to all the squad members in the room—“are going to go back to the hospital to protect Flag and if you have a problem with _that_ I suggest you deal with it back in the underworld. You find the mole and I’ll serve his head up to you on a platter, with a delicious Cajun dipping sauce on the side. Right now we’re going to go watch our brother’s back.”

Waller didn’t say anything, but there was a hint of pride glinting in her eye. “Whatever you say.”

Floyd was proud but at the same time he knew that he was definitely going to pay for that later. “Commander Jagodzinskimovich, get the car around.”

“It’s Jeffries for fucks sake!”

The commander was truthfully really starting to grow on Floyd.

The drive back to the hospital is in silence. Everyone’s exhausted; both physically and a bit emotionally as well, which is unusual for a bunch of psychopaths. Harley doesn’t seem tired in the least which should account for something. Floyd personally is definitely feeling all the 40-plus years of his life in his joints right about now and if he glares at the way Katana and Harley all but bound out of the car when they pull into the hospital parking lot, that’s just the tiredness showing. He’s not sure how old Diablo is under all those tattoos but he guesses somewhere in the late twenties to early-thirties, same with Boomerang. KC could be anywhere between his twenties to his hundred and twenties, who really knew with these half crocodile people. He was definitely too spry to be on Floyds list of people he didn’t currently hate, especially since he suddenly seemed to develop the ability to read minds.

“You need me to carry you, Lawton? Bridal style,” he says with a thundering laugh.

“Don’t make me shoot you, man.”

“Sorry grandpa.”

If Waller hadn’t confiscated his guns, he definitely would have let off a couple of rounds right into KC’s stupid lizard face.

“Hey, hey, hey, we’re all mates here,” says Boomerang, strutting up.

“C’mon guys, are we goin’ or what?” called Harley, playfully twirling the bat in her hand. Since everyone’s weapons got confiscated by Waller before they left, no one really knew how Harley got away with strutting out with hers.

On a scale of one-to-ten, being in an enclosed metal space with a psychopath, a thief, a hitman, a fire blazing vato, a sword wielding samurai, a half-crocodile man and a disgruntled army commander as the instrumental version of Careless Whisper plays softly in the background, the elevator awkwardness level was a clear twenty.

“You wanna know something, man?” Diablo starts. “I actually really like this song.”

No one really knows what to say to that. Floyd just doesn’t care.

“I’m more of a Stevie man myself,” says KC and Boomerang in the background chimes in with, “AD/DC for me!”

“Kono uta ga, suki desu,” Katana says.

No one really knows what to say to that either. They literally don’t know.

“For a couple of prolific killers both of you have terrible taste in music,” Harley says, staring at Katana knowingly then at Diablo. Adding yet another layer of mystery to the enigma that is Harley Quinn.

The elevator pings as it reaches the intended floor, and before Floyd even places one foot out the door he knows that something is wrong. Call it a hitman’s gut feeling. There was aura about the place that just didn’t feel right. Floyd only ever bailed on one job in his entire career and it was because of this _exact_ feeling. He doesn’t say anything to the squad still squabbling behind him, he just runs towards Flag’s room.

The moment he pushes through the double swing doors of the hall leading to the room Flag was in, the sheer noise just hit him like a punch in the groin. A shrill, high pitched alarm. The almost calm atmosphere in the hall when he left was replaced by a sort of frantic panic as a couple of doctors pushed past him and disappeared into the only occupied room on the floor. Floyd sensed rather than saw his squad came up beside him.

They could see GQ pacing around nervously outside the room, arms clasped over his head and eyes not straying from the scene inside. They all rushed towards him.

“What the hell happened?” Floyd asked even before he came to a stop. Watching a nurse hurriedly run out and towards the far end of the hall.

“I don’t know man, he just coded. I don’t know what happened!”

All of them looked towards the frantic scene inside Flag’s room. They’d pulled his bed about a foot away from the wall where a doctor was currently standing, taking over from the machines and manually pumping air into his lungs. Another doctor, the one who’d been tending to him, was on his side performing chest compressions. They heard her yelling “where the hell’s that crash cart?” and for about a dozen different medical stuff all at once. The heart monitor on the wall was displaying a flat green line.

No one dared to breathe.

The nurse who’d run out as they arrived returned with a cart equipped with various monitor and wires and pedals. They all quickly cleared a path for her to enter.

Floyd watched in apprehension as the doctor pulled down the upper half of Flag’s gown, exposing the now bloody bandages littering his torso. His chest rising and falling with every pump of humidified air into his weakened lungs. The one long, steady beep continued without relief. He watched as one of the nurses stuck two patches onto his chest, one of the upper right and the other on the lower left side of his chest, while another nurse handed two pedals to the doctor. The whinnying sound of the machine being powered up struck a nerve in Floyd, like he’d forgotten something important.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion. He heard the doctor yell out “clear” and immediately all the nurses and assisting doctors stepped back. The one standing at Flag’s head accidentally elbowed something off the side of the bed sending it clattering to the floor and the memory came back to Floyd in a rush.

The bullet!

He didn’t know if the electrical current from the defibrillator could affect it but he really didn’t want to find out.

The doctor was moving and Floyd was moving but time was standing still. He skidded to a stop in the doorway yelling for the doctor to wait, the doctor glanced back towards him but the pedal was already on Flag’s chest. But then the bullet was rolling almost comically slow out of his hand, down the side of his chest and off the bed, as the electrical current rippled through his unconscious body, sending it half jolting off the bed.

But the bullet kept falling, twirling and twisting almost gracefully in the air and landing end first on the cold hard floor.

And exploded.

Sending all the medical crew, Floyd and the squad ducking for cover.

It was complete silence, disrupted only by the steady shrill beep of the heart monitor.

But then the sound hitched once.

Then twice.

Then the one long shrill tone turned into short, steady, continuous beeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most action packed chapter I've ever written, I hope I did it justice. Also next chapter is going to be posted a little bit later, maybe mid next week. Hope you enjoyed :)
> 
> _Korosu - Kill them_
> 
> _Kochi da! - Over here_
> 
> _Kono uta ga, suki desu - I like this song_


	4. It's a Long Way to the Top

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was all Flag; his work, his effort, his friendship. Waller put them together but Flag made them a team. He made them a squad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly longer wait this time, but I think it's worth it. This is by far my most favourite chapter to write and also my most favourite overall. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

If ever someone could testify to seeing a bunch of violent criminals on the verge of tears, it would be at that exact moment. Obviously Boomerang wasn’t crying though, nope, it was just dust in the air. He had allergies. Killer Croc as his name implied didn’t cry _period_ , or tear up or get the sniffles or any sort of sappy shit like that. They were called crocodile tears for a fucking reason. Diablo teared up though and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. He’d lost too many people, too much family already, and Flag was his family, they all were. Losing him would have been devastating. The liquid evaporated as soon as they leaked out though, so no one realised that it was already trickling down his cheek. Harley didn’t cry, because Harley Quinn doesn’t cry. She didn’t cry when she lost her _puddin’_ and she wouldn’t cry if she lost her cupcake. She’d be sad and she’d miss him a lot but life just sucks like that. GQ and Katana didn’t cry either because this was Colonel Rick Flag they were talking about. He wouldn’t just go down without a fucking fight. Death was gonna have to drag him kicking and screaming down to hell and obviously, Waller didn’t have a place from him there yet. They were relieved beyond words though; GQ thought he’d melt right into the fucking floor under his feet.

Floyd was half terrified, half relieved and full pissed that Flag decided to go and scare the shit out of them like that. They were going to have a long, strongly worded discussion about that after this was over.

But the most important thing was that Flag was alive, the heart monitor was once again making sweet monotonous music and the mechanical ventilator had once again taken over breathing for him. The medical personnel in the room were slowly uncurling themselves from the foetal position they’d found themselves in once everything settled when a terrifying roar suddenly rings out.

“What. The. Fuck. _Was that_?”

Never underestimate the power of someone’s unadulterated anger. It wasn’t just the tattooed meta-human who could burst into a gigantic ball of fiery rage. Even petite little lady doctors who looked like they generally spent their free time knitting sweaters for old people and volunteering at the homeless shelters could suddenly turn into a being fuelled by fury and wrath; who crocheted little hearts and dainty flowers around the names of all the people who they’ve killed and whose soul they’ve devoured. Doctor Parminder, Floyd thinks her name was; he wanted to remember because he was probably going to have that name carved into his headstone after she killed him.

“Uhhh—” Floyd found himself frozen in position, not unlike a child who’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar when the good doctor twirled around to glare serrated edge daggers at him. “A good luck charm?”

“A good luck charm?” the doctor mimicked. “A _good luck charm_? You brought a live bullet into my hospital. Into _my_ hospital?”

“Uh, no?”

“What!”

“N-No, I mean—yes. I mean, it was a sentimental thing,” stuttered Floyd. He wasn’t a stutterer; he was definitely not a fraidy-cat.

But when Doctor Parminder advanced on him, her kitten heels clicking in the background like an ominous sound effect, Floyd was very afraid. He unconsciously took a couple of steps back, which turned out to be a huge mistake, because she now had him backed against the wall and cornered like a three legged rat. He looked to his squad and GQ for assistance but they all spontaneously found something more interesting to focus on in the far corner of the room, except Harley, but Harley was way too amused by the whole situation to be of any help.

“You brought a dangerous object into a patient’s room and left it there without supervision? The same dangerous object that put said patient in the hospital in the first place?”

It did sound _way_ stupid in hindsight when she put it that way.

“Well—”

“I’m not fucking done,” she says, and her tone was way too calm and collected. Floyd knew his days were numbered. He had his headstone all planned out and everything.

_Here lies Floyd ‘Deadshot’ Lawton. He killed a shit load of people then a doctor murdered him in cold blood. Karma’s a bitch._

Zoe was going to be sad. Flag might be sad too once he recovered. Floyd wonders if Flag will continue to watch over Zoe once he’s gone. He hopes so.

“You—” the doctor is jabbing a well-manicured finger into his chest and Floyd wonders if it’d make a difference if he compliment her on her lovely French-tips, “—brought a bullet into _my_ hospital—” she motions towards herself with both hands, “—and endangered my patient and my staff. Is that right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What do you have to say about that?”

“I’m sorry doctor ma’am sir. It will never happen again.”

“Good. Make sure of that.” And with that the good doctor steps back and turns to head back into the room. Floyd is finally able to breathe, but he thinks that this isn’t right. He got off way too easy. And he was right because the doctor turned and regarded him again. “Because the next time you, or one of your little criminal friends decides to pull another stunt like this, I will hold _you_ personally responsible. I will slit your throat with a blunted scalpel, rip your guts out through your trachea and make you wear your intestines like a feather boa in your grave. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes doctor ma’am sir.” Came the chorused reply.

Harley came up beside the doctor and flung an arm casually over one shoulder, resting her chin on the other. “I like your choice of perfume too, doctor. It’s very…homicidal chic. My favourite kind.”

Floyd thinks he imagined the doctors’ reply of, “I buy it in bulk,” because his heart is still pounding in his chest. Perhaps it was a side effect of being _one of the good guys_ but he has genuinely never been so intimidated in his life. He suddenly had scary flashbacks of child Floyd getting disciplined by his grandmother for being a little shit. It was both intimidating and a shameful kind of embarrassment on his part. One thing for sure was that it was humbling. And people called them the ‘ _bad’_ guys. From what he’d experienced so far, it was the _‘good’_ guys who were far more terrifying and bat shit crazy.

“You can go see him now. But remember, no funny business,” she looks pointedly at Floyd. “Otherwise your little _nom de plume_ is going to mean something completely different.”

Floyd didn’t know if he was supposed to be offended or not. Harley laughed but it didn’t seem like she was in a sharing mood. _Whatever._ Flag was the only thing that mattered right now.

“Commander Jefferson Starship, Agent Gumby, you watch them doors properly, ya’ hear?” He left without waiting for their reaction but he did hear a frustrated _‘it’s fucking Jeffries!’_ being shouted back at him.

“Seriously, man, what’s with the Gumby thing?” Boomerang asked.

GQ pitched in quickly before Floyd could even say anything. “It’s cause the hair isn’t it? I was thinking the same fucking thing, man! But I wasn’t going to say anything. This is awesome.”

“Good to know the people we currently have in charge of the most dangerous squad in the world spends their time watching kids TV shows,” KC says, but he’s chuckling a deep rumbling laugh.

“It was a show Zoe liked to watch, don’t even start with me, man.”

GQ just shrugged nonchalantly, confirming the fact that he did in fact spend his time watching kids TV shows.

“Cupcake,” Harley chirps suddenly bouncing over to the bed and planting a kiss on Flag’s cheek, climbing up and snuggling close to him on the small section of bed. Everyone joined her around Flag.

“You’d think a person would have the decency to wake up by now to thank us for all the shit we had to do for him today. Instead he decides to go and scare the crap out of us by almost dying _again_ ,” Floyd says, but there’s no real bite to his words. He leans in close to add. “We got the people who did this, Flag. You’ll never have to worry about them again.”

Flag didn’t answer or show any signs of consciousness. But Floyd wasn’t really expecting it. He knew Flag had a long way still to go even after he recovered.

“Yeah, Flag. We ain’t going anywhere until you tell us to, so you’re not getting rid of us that easy,” said KC.

Harley was still snuggled into his side, hugging his left arm like a bolster. Boomerang had once again produced a new six-pack of beer out of somewhere in his coat and was chugging it down. “Cheers mate,” he said, raising an opened can in a toast. “You guys want a beer?” he added, almost as an afterthought. Both GQ and KC answered with an affirmative, to which Boomerang said, “Well then you better go buy some then, aye.”

Boomerang was an asshole, so no one was really surprised.

No one knew how many hours had passed, they didn’t know how many more were going to pass; a day, two days. A week? It didn’t matter. None of them were budging from that spot in that room until Flag was awake and conscious and one hundred percent free of danger, especially from his own government.

Eventually everyone kind of flittered off towards various parts of the hospital room. It wasn’t that big, but it was spacious despite all the equipment and machines to room them all. Harley hadn’t moved from her spot on the bed, gently humming a song Floyd didn’t recognize and her fingers twirling around strands of Flag’s hair. KC was sitting cross legged on the floor in the far corner, arms crossed over his chest. Floyd didn’t know if he was really asleep but his eyes were closed. Boomerang was on his left side sleeping, open-mouthed and drooling while resting his head on one scaly shoulder. Katana had her head the other shoulder, also deeply asleep, Soultaker still clutched firmly in her hands. Diablo was sitting right in the middle of the entrance with his back against the door frame, one leg stretched out in front of him, fiddling around with tiny sparks of fire in his hand, making them fly up and down and dance around each other before fizzling down to nothing. His body and body language made it clear that anyone who wanted to enter that room had to go through him first. GQ left a couple of hours ago, saying that he had some business to take care off, now that Flag was in good hands.

The clock at the nurse’s station said 9.34 P.M. which seemed ridiculous. Had it really only been a little over 24 hours since Flag’s attack? It seemed like so much longer.

Floyd was spread out almost bonelessly on the only available chair in the room; a decent office chair he’d commandeered from the nurses station because as he’d put it; “These forty year-old bones and that floor just ain’t gonna happen.” So there he was, adequately comfortable in the chair besides Flag’s bed, watching the rise and fall of his friend’s chest and Harley fiddling around with his hair. Neither of them said anything to each other.

A few seconds later there were sounds of footsteps approaching and Floyd tensed despite himself, even though he knew that they were safe from whatever threat that could show up. Especially threats that were stupid enough to walk in through the front door.

But it was just GQ’s dumbass overly cheerful face that popped into view.

“Hey Lawton,” he said, oblivious to the fact that Floyd was super done with all these super spry youngsters who didn’t seem to have an end to their energy level. It pissed him off. “There’s someone here to see you.”

And whatever annoyance Floyd felt towards GQ immediately dissipated, he vowed to never ever get angry or annoyed at GQ ever again because there was shuffling of lighter footsteps and a familiar voice calling him.

“Daddy!”

And Floyd was out of his seat and around the bed, almost tripping over Diablo in his rush to grab his daughter in the biggest tightest most encompassing hug he could.

“Zoe! What—what are you—how?”

“GQ came and got me at the house. Mom was out so GQ told Darnell,” – Floyd mentally spat out that word, _Darnell_ —“to tell her that I was being brought in as an important witness and that if he or her had a problem with it, they should take it up with the United States government.”

Floyd could have kissed GQ.

And he did, right on the mouth, because seriously if someone deserved a kiss on the mouth for anything it would be GQ at that very moment.

The guy was stunned for a while, but eventually just rolled with it with a boisterous laugh like he did with everything else. It had become something of an inside joke with Flag and the squad; GQ was so chill even a fireball to the face couldn’t kill him.

“How long do we have?” Floyd asks and he’s probably blubbering like a little baby walrus right now but he doesn’t even care.

“Well, you know how the US government is with their official business. They’ll get to it when they get to it.”

Floyd kisses GQ again, he doesn’t even fucking care.

Harley’s smiling at him from the bed and he knows that Diablo, KC and Katana were pretending not to be listening in. Boomerang’s still a hundred and twenty percent dead asleep.

“Is Uncle Rick going to be alright?” Zoe asks him once he’s seated, she’s perched on his knee and they’re both looking towards the unconscious Flag.

“He’s going to be fine, baby. Flag’s made of titanium and steel. Like Robocop.”

“Robocop is made of titanium laminated in Kevlar though,” Zoe says. “But that’s the original Robocop, not the new one.”

“Who the hell let you watch the original Robocop movies?”

“Well, Darnell—”

“ _Darnell_ ,” Floyd seethes. “I am seriously going to kil—” Zoe is giving him a sideways look—“I mean, the both of us are going to have a long and serious discussion about this like responsible and mature adults.”

Zoe just snuggles close to his chest in response. Floyd takes a moment to look down at his daughter in his arms and over at his squad; Harley finally seemed to have fallen asleep, still clutching Flag’s arm and snuggled comfortably into his side. There’s a deep guttural snarling sound from KC’s direction; a soft, almost imperceptible whistling occasionally emitting from Katana and Boomerang sounding like he’s currently sawing a block of cement with his tongue. They were doing an impeccable portrayal of the world’s worst musical trio. Diablo was far too rigid and tense in his position, but his breathing was shallow and relaxed, meaning that he was probably asleep as well. GQ had also taken a seat on the floor and was leaning against the same wall but parallel to Diablo’s position, shoulders almost touching, facing Floyd and Flag. He wasn’t yet asleep but his head kept lolling from side to side signalling that sleep was inevitable.

This was all Flag; his work, his effort, his friendship. Waller put them together but Flag made them a team. He made them a _squad_.

“How come someone wanted to hurt Uncle Rick?” Zoe asks, jolting Floyd out of his reverie.

“They… they thought he did something bad, but they were wrong.”

“Uncle Rick’s a good person.”

“I know baby. I heard he’s been taking care of you while I was away.”

“Yeah. When—when they came to arrest you again at mom’s place, Uncle Rick asked me what I liked to eat and I told him sushi. Then he came later with sushi and he helped me with the rest of my homework—he’s really bad at math though. And he stayed until mom came back.”

Floyd didn’t think his affections for Flag could actually grow, but it just did.

“Sometimes he walks me home from school too. Like when he drops by with takeout for me and mom—he always says to tell Darnell that he isn’t invited, he asks me who’s taking me to school or picking me up, like sometimes mom forgets so I walk back myself, cause it’s not really a big deal.  Sometimes Uncle Rick shows up and I kind of know that mom’s been on a bender again and Darnell’s off wherever. And we stop for pancakes or stuff like that. It’s nice. He tells me about you, like how much you miss me and all the good things you’re going to do together.”

Floyd’s all choked up now. He doesn’t want to start blubbering in front of his daughter but with every word coming out of her mouth, the chances of that happening get more and more likely.

Zoe’s blissfully oblivious to her father’s plight and keeps talking. “Sometimes he asks me about you and I tell him that even though you’re a bad guy and you do bad things, I still love you cause you’re my dad and I know there’s a reason you did all those bad stuff. And I told him that you don’t like pineapple on your pizza and you like all types of jelly donuts. Uncle Rick likes pineapple on his pizza though, and onions and tuna—eugh, which sounds so gross.” Floyd has to agree but, that doesn’t even matter. Flag could like spam and hearts of babies on his pizza and he would still be a swell guy in Floyd’s book.

“Uncle Rick sounds like a really great guy,” Floyd says, looking Zoe in the eye and returning her smile. “He gave me your notes too, and the coconut candies. Thank you baby, I really enjoyed them.”

“You’re welcome, daddy.”

And they trail off into silence, Zoe snuggled into Floyd’s chest and Floyd is holding on like he never wants to let her go. Floyd surveys the scene before him, looking at the injured Flag who’s become such an important part of his life in such a short amount of time, and the group of dysfunctional miscreants who have somehow weaselled their way into becoming part of his family. He thinks that he’d trust Zoe’s life with each and every one of them.

Except maybe Boomerang. Floyd wouldn’t trust him if he was the last raft on a sinking boat. He knows he could count on Boomerang in a fight, but on an ethical level though…not so much.

Floyd’s thinking so much about everything he doesn’t even remember falling asleep. But eventually even he too is lost to the world.

Still, Flag sleeps on, oblivious to the world and everyone around him. Not realising that at the moment, he was quite possibly the most well protected person on earth.

Zoe stays awake though. She’s too worked up and excited to sleep. He dad’s snoring softly behind her and little sounds and snorts that come occasionally break the monotonous silence and the beeps and the hisses typical of a hospital. Zoe likes it. It feels, safe and comfortable, like a real family.

Zoe already has a family. She loves her mom and Darnell’s not really the dick her dad makes him out to be. She knows how to make her own breakfast now, so it’s fine if her mom sleeps in. Sometimes Darnell brings home scones and tiny cakes when he leaves to go do business. Zoe knows exactly what business he does but she doesn’t really care either way. He’s just her mom’s boyfriend. The scones and tiny cakes are dry and chewy and sometimes they have a strange aftertaste like they’ve been in the paper bag with stuff besides scones and tiny cakes for a little too long, but it’s fine. She makes really good pancakes. Her dad would like them. The school isn’t too far either, just about 2,576 feet or about 858.667 yards in a straight line from her house. She knows. It only takes her about 14 minutes and 34 seconds to walk to and from school. Zoe’s always had an affinity for numbers and distances and the tiny details people never usually notice or pay attention to, but she’s never told her dad about it.

Sometimes Zoe feels bad for secretly nudging her dad towards the alleyway shortcut home that night because she noticed a dark figure in her periphery. She didn’t want her dad to get arrested, but she also wanted him to not be a bad guy anymore or get killed trying to run. And even though she feels bad about it, she’s glad with how it turned out. Cause if someone really nice and a good guy like Uncle Rick was friends with her dad, then that had to mean that he dad wasn’t all bad, right? Because Uncle Rick obviously likes him, otherwise why would he go through so much trouble to watch out for Zoe? They didn’t even know each other.

She doesn’t understand why someone would want to hurt him though. She knows he’s a soldier and soldier always go into dangerous places and sometimes they get hurt. She saw the destruction in Midtown City on TV; it was so surreal and quite amazing but also scary. The guys on the news all didn’t know what was going on either, except that the government was sending special teams in and they’d see army choppers fly in and out of the city. But in the corner of the screen, just before the camera drone got destroyed, Zoe saw a bunch of people headed towards the subway station where everything was happening. No one else saw it, not her mom or Darnell or the news people on TV, but she saw them clear as day and she recognized her dad instantly and Zoe didn’t think she could ever feel as proud of her dad as she did right then.

But GQ told her that Uncle Rick hadn’t gotten hurt in a dangerous place. He got hurt just walking home which makes it even worse.

Her dad doesn’t stir when she slides off his lap and walks over to the bed. She’s never seen anyone this hurt before. She watches medical shows on TV all the time, and she’s seen people on TV get hurt badly a lot, even the characters she likes. But she’s never seen it in person, or someone she knows and likes. She likes Uncle Rick a lot. He’s funny and he’s nice and he’s nice to her dad, so that makes him doubly awesome in her book. He also slammed Darnell up against the wall because Darnell said something nasty about her dad, he always does that and it always makes Zoe upset but she could never do anything about it. But Uncle Rick’s so tall and strong and scary and Zoe thinks Darnell even peed himself a little when it happened. He never spoke badly about her dad again.

But he doesn’t look that tall or strong or scary right now and that makes Zoe really upset.

She reaches over across the mattress to grab his hand. His hand is big and rough and warm, like him. “Uncle Rick?” she calls out, looking at his face, looking for anything, a sign, a blink. She stares at him unblinking for 7 point 2 seconds, but he doesn’t react. Since her dad got arrested again, he’s been coming to check on her every couple of days. The days he doesn’t stop by he calls the house phone to check up. Darnell didn’t want to give him their number, but he found out what it was anyway. He came by yesterday but had to leave early because he said he had work and he had to go look for a magazine for her dad. She wondered if he found it, or was he hurt before he managed to.

Her dad’s still sleeping but he’s shifted slightly in his sleep and is now curled in on himself on his side on the chair. Zoe doesn’t want to disturb him because he’d seemed obviously tired and everyone else in the room was already asleep. She let go of Uncle Ricks hand for a while and heaves herself up onto the mattress, careful not to jolt it too much because the lady with the cool eyeshadow is asleep on his other side. She sits on his side, legs dangling off the side of the bed and crosses her legs at the ankles; lifting his hand up onto her lap, clutching it firmly and mindful of all the IV’s and crisscrossing lines and the clip on monitor at the tip of his finger.

Zoe loves her mom and she doesn’t hate Darnell, but Uncle Flag’s the only one she feels she can count on since her dad isn’t there; she doesn’t want to lose him. She knows her dad doesn’t either. So she sits there with him and waits, and watches over him this time because everyone seems too tired to do so. It feels nice to not be alone and it feels good to be surrounded by family. Cause her dad’s family is her family too.

Zoe doesn’t remember falling asleep and she isn’t sure what woke her up. The next thing she realises is looking down at the mattress and Uncle Rick’s hand still on her lap, one leg curled under her but she has her head on his stomach, using it as a pillow. After a while she realises what woke her up. The feel of muscles contracting in her hand and fingers twitching on her lap. Not her fingers, not her muscles, but belonging to the hand she’s currently holding. It’s so mild she thinks she might have imagined it, but she knows she hadn’t.

And the fingers twitch again, only a fraction but it felt huge.

She looks over at Uncle Rick’s face, but it’s still lax and he’s still unconscious.

Until he isn’t.

His head tilts slightly to the side and his brows furrow, like he’s in pain or confused or both at the same time. And he looks like he’s trying to cough but then he starts to choke and she feels the hand on her lap move sluggishly towards his face. She manages to catch it by the wrist before his fingers brush the straps holding the tube in his throat. “Uncle Rick,” she calls out softly, but he can’t seem to hear her. He’s still choking, there are tears trickling down the side of his face and she’s terrified. “Dad!” She calls out, looking tensely over at her dad. The lady on Uncle Rick’s other side; Zoe thinks her name is Harley, because he’s mentioned her before, is starting to stir. “ _Daddy_!” she calls out louder this time jolting her dad and Harley immediately awake.

“Wh—What’s wrong baby—”

“Dad, I think he’s waking up!”

Her dad immediately jumps to his feet and rushes over, on the other side Harley’s also on her feet, leaning expectantly over Flag.

“Flag?” Floyd calls out softly, placing one hand on Flag’s shoulder and the other grabbing the crook of his elbow. Flag’s chest is heaving painfully and he looks like he’s soundlessly choking. “Get a nurse or a doctor!” he instructs and Harley immediately rushes out. The commotion rouses the rest of the squad and they all return to bleary consciousness.

“What’s happening, Lawton?” KC asks, yawning wide with his arms outstretched, jolting Boomerang off his shoulder and sending his barely conscious ass crashing to the floor.

“Flag’s waking up!”

That immediately jolts everyone awake and to their feet, even Boomerang, although it takes him about half a second after he gets to his feet to realise that he’s on his feet and to fully understand why.

“We need a doctor though, I think something’s wrong.”

“It’s the tube, dad,” Zoe says.

Floyd immediately leans over Flag, his grip firm on Flag’s shoulder. “Flag it’s me. It’s your friend Floyd, remember. You’re alright, man. You’re safe now; we’ve all got your back. You need to try to calm down, the doc’s on her way. Flag?” he searches Flag’s face for any sign that he understood what he said. He’s still struggling, but his heaving becomes less severe and desperate. “That’s it, Flag. You know, we’re all here, man, all your favourite psycho murderers all in a room together just cause of you.  You should be flattered, Flag, cause we don’t get together like this for just anyone.” Floyd’s not even sure what he’s saying or what he’s even talking about, but his voice seems to be calming Flag down, so he’ll read the fucking Terms and Conditions out loud if he has to. Zoe’s still holding Flag’s wrist but he isn’t trying to pull out of her grasp anymore. Instead his hand had flops back down onto her lap.

“Flag?” KC calls, placing a giant hand on his other shoulder. “We’re all here. GQ, Diablo, Katana, Harley, we even managed to drag Boom’s ass out of the pub this time.”

The beeping on the heart monitor becomes a lot less frantic and Flag has stopped struggling. He still looks like he’s about to cough but fails and ends up choking, but his brows are less furrowed and he doesn’t seem to be in too much pain anymore.

Harley returned a few second later with Doctor Parminder and a couple of nurses in tow.

“Colonel?” the doctor calls out as she approaches the bed. She’d glared Floyd out of her way, but everyone is still crowded around and Zoe’s still holding Flag’s hand tightly on her lap. “Colonel Flag, can you hear me?”

No response.

“May I?” the doctor said to Zoe, motioning for Flag’s hand. Zoe reluctantly relinquished her hold and the doctor turns back towards Flag, this time clutching his hand between hers. “Colonel, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”

A beat passes, but nothing.

“Colonel, I need you to squeeze my hand if you can hear me.”

No one in the world has ever stared as intently at a hand as the people in that room at that moment.

Then slowly and weakly, the pale fingers enclosed around the doctors’. Everyone let out the breath they didn’t realise they’d been holding.

“Good, Colonel. Very good. You’re doing great so far. Now, can you open your eyes for me, just a little?”

Floyd had walked closer to Zoe and circled an arm around her shoulders, gently stroking her upper arm in comfort. Harley was clutching onto Diablo who had a hand on GQ’s shoulder. KC was beside Katana at the foot of the bed and even Boomerang for once didn’t have anything crude or inappropriate to say.

“Colonel, can you open your eyes for me please?”

Flag tilts his head from side to side slightly, brows furrowed.

“Uncle Rick?” Zoe calls out.

Flag’s eyes crack open a fraction but that achievement alone feels monumental. His gaze is glassy and unfocused but his eyes are the warm, familiar brown almost hazel that they all remember. Looking at those eyes that he’s grown so accustomed to, Floyd almost burst out into ugly crying but he managed to contain himself. “Welcome back,” he says instead, hoping his voice didn’t waver. When Flag’s gaze sluggishly finds his, he’s sure he’s definitely a goner and the waterworks were definitely coming.

He’s glad for the distraction when the doctor starts running a few tests; pupil reaction time, his muscle response and a bunch of other tests no one knows what for. Eventually she steps back, satisfied and Harley rushes forward, hugging Flag around the waist and resting her head on his chest. “Welcome back, colonel cupcake. We missed you a lot. But we managed to kill some real bad guys in the meantime, so that was definitely a bonus.”

Flag was still too weak and he couldn’t speak, but Floyd was certain he didn’t imagine the disapproving glint in his eye, like he could almost hear Flag’s voice in his head going _‘you people are seriously messed up.’_

“Hey colonel. You really scared the crap out of us back there. I’m pretty sure Lawton cried,” said GQ, the traitor. Floyd was always under the impression that GQ at the very least had his back. It obviously wasn’t the case.

“No one fucking cried. Except Diablo—” Floyd put his hands up when Diablo turned to look at him—“which is totally fine. You let your feelings out however you want, man.”

The doctor tapped him on the arm and he immediately recoiled back in response. “Relax,” she said, a little too amusedly for his taste. “We should talk outside.” She motioned for him and GQ to follow her out, leaving Flag at the mercy of Zoe and the rest of the squad.

When they were all clear in the empty hallway, the doctor continued. “Colonel Flag is one lucky son of a bitch I have to say. He’s healing up remarkably well considering everything that’s happened. But I’d like to keep him intubated for at least another 24 hours as a precaution.”

“But is that going to be okay? He panicked when he woke up earlier.”

“You managed to get him to calm down though, which is admirable. But I won’t lie it’s probably going to be uncomfortable, so that why I need you all to keep him as calm and relaxed as possible, don’t rile him up and no more bullet surprises—” she looks pointedly at Floyd. “The alternative is to sedate him for the next 24 hours, but I would rather not go down that route unless I really have to. Can you gentlemen do that?”

“You bet, doc.”

“Of course.”

“Also we’ll put off doing a Babinski until he’s less stressed. We don’t want him to get worked up too much.”

Floyd’s positive they both look like a couple of chumps staring at the doctor right then. He’s sure she’d been speaking English, at least until like four seconds ago.

“Is that the dude from Lord of the Rings?” GQ asks. Floyd has no clue what _either_ of them are talking about at this point.

“I’m pretty sure that one’s called a Baggins,” the doctor explains calmly, if a little slowly, enunciating each word as she were talking to a toddler. She wasn’t that far off though.

“Not that I don’t find this conversation absolutely fascinating, but can we get back to speaking _now_ English please, that would be great.”

“What I mean is that we’ll put off doing the reflex test to check for nerve damage until he’s calmed down. We don’t want to stress him out even more than he already is.”

Both of the can only nod in agreement. They had been told the possibility of damage before but the doctor’s word just drove it home.

“Good. Now, I’ll let you go see him. I’ll be by periodically to check on him.”

“Thanks doc,” GQ says.

They return just in time to catch a crude punchline to what they assume was an equally crude joke being told by Boomerang. Flag is still awake, but his gaze is unfocused and faraway. But he does make eye contact with Floyd when he finally returns. Floyd is touched.

“What did the doctor want?”

“Nothing, just explaining Flag’s condition a bit. You’re doing better than she expected,” Floyd says, directing the second part of the statement at Flag, not wanting to talk about him like he isn’t even there. “But she wants to keep the tube in for a while, just for safety.”

Flag rolls his eyes. It’s a small movement and almost imperceptible but Floyd sees it.

“You don’t want to get on the bad side of that woman, trust me.”

Flag holds his gaze for a few second longer until his eyes starts drooping. He tries blinking the sleep away but everyone can see that he’s fighting a losing battle. “Go ahead and sleep, Flag,” KC says. And Flag’s too weak and tired and in pain to need to be asked twice.

The rhythm of the heart monitor slowly evens out signalling that he’d drifted off again.

The room is silent after that, but everyone’s exchanging a look of intense relief with each other. Floyd starts laughing despite himself, rubbing a hand over his face and through his beard. “Goddamn, Flag,” he mutters to himself.

“Well that was exciting, who’s up for round two?” Boomerang says cheerily, brandishing a brand new six pack of bear even though he hadn’t been out of their sights for even a minute.

“You are hands down the weirdest son of a bitch I have ever met in my life, ese, and I have met _weird_ sons of bitches,” says Diablo, completely nonchalant and unruffled by Harley hanging off his arm with her head resting on his shoulder. She grins at Diablo’s comment.

“And just look at him _._ He’s the strangest looking dude _I’ve_ ever seen in my life,” says KC with a boisterous laugh, motioning towards Diablo. Everyone, including Diablo, can’t help it, they all laugh along. The stress in the room feels like it has just gone from fifteen down to about a three.

Even Zoe laughs, looking around at the crowd gathered around the hospital bed. Uncle Rick talked about her dad and their team a lot and she feels like she almost knows all of them in a way, but getting to meet them, she realised that she didn’t feel afraid at all. Not by the tattooed guy, or the sword wielding samurai and not even by the giant crocodile man wearing the really awesome leather coat.

“Hey, I know y’all eavesdroppers were just pretending to sleep earlier, but I’d like to personally introduce you to my daughter, Zoe,” Floyd said, motioning towards Zoe who was still perched comfortably on the side of Flag’s bed. “Flag, I know you know her real well,” he adds, looking towards the unconscious man.

“Hi,” Zoe says, cause…well, what else do you say? She really hopes they like her.

She knows that they were all criminals and they’d killed people before, but so had her dad. Plus her dad was friends with them and Uncle Rick seemed to like them all a lot, so they couldn’t be all that bad, right?

It’s takes about 4 point 3 seconds before anyone reacts, then Harley suddenly tackles her from the side and holds her in a firm hug.

“She’s very cuddly, and she smells nice,” Harley says, Zoe’s cheek squished up against her own. “So, do you call your dad _Dadshot_?” she asks as she pulls away, her pigtails bobbing up and down.

“What the hell kind of question is that to ask an eleven year old?” Floyd asks at the same time Zoe says. “No, but I might start to now.”

Harley just laughs at Floyd’s glare. “You’re very cute,” she says and turns to Zoe. “You’re very cute too, Zoe.”

“Yeah Lawton, she must have gotten her looks from her mom’s side of the family,” KC adds.

“I’ll have you know that us Lawtons get our looks from our great ancestor Bass Reeves, who was not only the first black Deputy U.S. Marshal, but also the best looking. Where do you think the Law in Law-ton comes from?” Floyd says indignantly and everyone just laughs.

“Wow imagine his disappointment,” said GQ. “The apple fell so far from that tree it ended up in an alternate dimension. I know I’d be super disappointed to have one of you guys as my descendant. Hell I wouldn’t want _me_ as my descendant.”

The atmosphere in the room in noticeable lighter and happier and it isn’t until everything’s finally settled down that they all realised that none of them had eaten anything since yesterday morning.

“Fuck, man, I just had like a packet of skittles and two sodas I’m fucking starving,” GQ says, perfectly expressing what all of them were feeling at that moment.

“Yo, Commander Jazzy Jeff! We all need food up in here.”

There was no vulgar comeback correcting him and for a second Floyd was a little concerned. A survey of the hallway outside found Commander Jeffries—because obviously Floyd knew his name, it was just more fun pretending not to know—curled up in one of hard plastic chair, arms crossed and his body kind of folded in on himself. A glance at the clock informed Floyd that it was only 3.57 A.M.

“Commander’s asleep; it’s only 4 A.M. for fucks sake.”

“Damn, man.”

But eventually everyone realised that their need for sleep far outweighed their need for food and drifted off back to their respective nooks. KC, Katana and Boomerang resumed their three man band performance. Diablo in the door and GQ parallel to him  and facing Flag. Harley wiggled her way between them at one point, an arm around GQ and her head on Diablo’s shoulder. This time Zoe had climbed onto his lap and slept curled up on his chest, like how she used to do when she was a baby. Floyd had dragged his chair closer to Flag’s bed in case something happened, but this time he was the one awake. He was still tired but after everything that happened within the last fifteen minutes or so he didn’t think he’d be able to sleep a wink, which he was fine with. He looked down at his sleeping daughter and subconsciously hugged her tighter. She moaned a little in her sleep that sounded like _daddy_ and Floyd was a goner. He wasn’t the emotional type, no matter what GQ said or how Diablo sometimes looked sympathetically in his direction. Because Diablo obviously knew first-hand how hard it was being without your kids and your family, the difference was that even though Floyd didn’t get to see his daughter when he wanted, he still had a daughter. He could never imagine Diablo not only losing his family but having to live with the fact that he’s the one responsible for it. He feels for the poor guy, which is why he lets slide most of the smart ass comments coming from him, no matter what language they’re coming in.

He doesn’t know if the rest of them have any family. KC didn’t seem like he had any family, meaning Floyd hasn’t yet heard about any other discovery of half human creatures. Flag mentioned that Katana’s husband was killed and obviously Harley’s only—connection? Outside the squad was the Joker, but that relationship seemed like seven shades of messed up. She seems to truly love him though and he seems to have a certain possessive need for her, but whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t healthy.  That’s why everyone treats Harley like that one wild kid sister they low-key wanted to protect even though she was more than capable of fucking shit up herself. The Joker’s old news now though, even though deep down Floyd knows that they probably haven’t heard the last of him.

GQ _obviously_ didn’t have any family _or_ friends outside the military and the squad. He follows Flag around like a lost little chick and he’d obviously imprinted on Diablo at some point, in more ways than one. Floyd didn’t fail to notice that he stands a little too close than is truly necessary and if Diablo notices his shoulders occasionally almost touching he doesn’t say anything and generally doesn’t seem all too concerned about it.  

He didn’t know if Flag had any family. Obviously he never mentioned any and the only person Flag associated with outside the squad and Waller was June, so it seemed like he was too a qualified member of this island of misfit toys.

Floyd looks over to the man in question, once again blissfully obliviously to the goings on in the world after putting the people who care about him through such an emotional roller coaster. But then again it wasn’t that he didn’t deserve the reprieve. Floyd’s been shot a grand total of once, and it was so poorly executed Floyd wouldn’t even spare it the dignity of being considered an actual gunshot; more like a paper cut to the arm, a cylindrical shaped paper made of steel. He’d never admit it to anyone but that hurt like a son of a bitch and he vowed to never get shot ever again. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what _four_ of those _inside_ the human body would actually feel like and he hopes he’d never have to find out.

“Hey, you asleep, ese?”

He hears Diablo’s voice and since he’s the only person currently awake in the room he assumes the question is directed at him.

“Nah, man. What’s up?”

Diablo is silent and Floyd lets him gather his thoughts before he speaks again. “Nothing, man. Just…haven’t been asleep around this many people before. It’s weird.”

Floyd chuckles, because it isn’t untrue. “I know the feeling man. I haven’t held my sleeping daughter in my arms since she was about four.” And Floyd realised too late what he’d said until after he’d said it. But Diablo didn’t seem put out by the mention.

“Truth is, I’m kind of afraid to go to sleep. What if the nightmares come and I can’t stop myself from burning this whole place down?”

Floyd’s not sure what to say to that. Truth is the thought never even crossed his mind. He knew Diablo’s history and he’s seen first-hand how powerful he truly was, but somehow over the course of the last couple of months the thought of Diablo actually posing a threat to the well-being and safety of the squad seemed to have slipped everyone’s mind. This was the Diablo who guards were complaining about feeding the mice that somehow made their way into his cell and who fed scrap of food to the stray cats he saw in an alley last time they were on a mission. The Diablo who actively refused to use his powers to take another human being’s life unless they were no longer human. The Diablo who admitted to liking the theme song of woobies of the world, Careless Whisper. That Diablo just happened to be almost completely tattooed and possess the power of a fire god.

“Why do you think we stick GQ with you all the time, man, you think it’s cause he likes you? Nah, man, he’s just there to chill you into calm serenity. Being in the immediate vicinity of GQ is what keeps Boomerang’s beers perpetually chilled to perfection. Waller on the other hand keeps his beers ice cold.”

Floyd hears Diablo’s almost imperceptible chuckle.

“You sure, man?”

“Look—” Floyd starts, adjusting himself in his seat a little. “We’ve fought an ancient witch who was fucking up the city dead set on destroying mankind by unleashing—I don’t even know what, a giant swirling tornado of garbage or whatever that shit was about. Flag took four bullets at almost point blank range and he’s still hangin’ in there. He’ll be back to being the pasty pain in our asses in no time. We’ve gone through almost three months of being a squad and KC still hasn’t eaten Boomerang’s stank-ass for being the world most annoying dickhead. That’s quite an achievement if I do say so. So you know, whatever it is, whatever problem comes up, we’ll deal with it.”

“Nah, man, you don’t understand—”

“Nah, man, _you_ don’t understand. We got your back,” Floyd says confidently. “What’s it you people say? _Todo la famalia_?”

“Todo para la familia?” Diablo offers but he has a small smile on his face and he seems genuinely touched.

“Yeah, that shit. We didn’t learn all these fancy languages like you and Harley in the hood.”

Diablo is outright laughing this point and Floyd puffs up a little with genuine pride. “Pretty sure we grew up in the same kind of hood, man.”

“Well, where I come from we only speak American.”

Both of them fall into a comfortable silence after that.

“Hey, Lawton. Thanks.”

And for the second time that week, Floyd finds himself saying, “Hey, man. My friends call me Floyd.”

Diablo eventually drifts off into a seemingly restful sleep. His shoulders seemed far less tense and his head had dropped slightly to rest on the top of Harley’s head.

Totoro la family—or whatever it was—indeed.

Floyd settles back into his chair, his baby girl in his lap and just waits. An hour passes, then two and then three, but it didn’t really seem like any time at all. Because he was in that room with the people he trusted and perhaps even loved most in the world. It was strange to think that not even three months ago, he was still in solitary confinement in Belle Reve, no contact with his daughter, absolutely nothing to look forward to and no one to rely on and now he had an entire room full of all that.

He was too lost in thoughts and all the memories and trying not to fucking tear up again like some eliminated loser on the Bachelorette, that he almost didn’t notice the slight movement coming from Flag’s bed and the eyes that were slowly cracking open. A nurse had come over at some point and raised the back of his bed slightly so that he was more in a sitting up leaning position than a laying down one.

Eventually Floyd notices the slight movement out of the corner of his eye and looks over to see Flag’s still glazed over, half-lidded eyes looking at the sleeping squad scattered around the room.

“Hey, Colonel Flag,” Floyd calls out gently, trying not to rouse Zoe or the others by being too loud.  It takes Flag a few moments to realize Floyd is calling his name, but eventually his gaze turns to Floyd and Floyd can barely hold back the wide grin on his face. “’Bout time you came back down to this mortal plane with us peasants.” Floyd’s not sure if Flag even truly realises he’s there, but his gaze soon shifts lower to look at Zoe and Floyd’s grin turns into a wide smile. “GQ brought her over last night; turns out he’s as big a deceiver as you are. I guess he learned from the best.”

He thinks Flag understood that because he almost laughs but then chokes on the tube and Floyd reaches over to grip his shoulder comfortingly. “Hey, man, relax. Sorry about that. I’ll try to contain my wit and my charm this one time.” It takes Flag a few second to calm himself down before his watery eyes open again to rest on Floyd. “Zoe told me about everything you did for her and her mom and everything you _didn’t_ do for Darnell, and I’ve said this before but thank you. T _hank you_ for taking care of my little girl for thinking for her and caring for her even though you didn’t have to.”

Flag’s gaze on Floyd doesn’t waver and it seemed like he was trying to figure out how to reply to that. Eventually Floyd notices the hand on his chest moving, the index and thumb curling in slightly to form an O, as in OK. Even that small effort seemed to take a great deal out of Flag.

“Oh, hey, Flag,” they hear GQ’s sleepy voice chime in and Flag’s eyes turn to look at his second-in-command slowly getting to his feet, stretching the kinks out of his joints. Diablo who had also woken up at one point gently nudges Harley awake as well. Over in the other corner KC, Katana and Boomerang was also in the process of waking up. A sudden roaring yawn from KC immediately brings Boomerang all the way back to the land of the living. “Glad to see you awake, Rick, I really am, but I seriously need to get something to eat like right fucking now otherwise I’m seriously going to start eating one of you guys. I’ll probably start with KC though because apparently crocodile meat tastes delicious.”

“Damn straight I taste delicious, brah.”

Floyd looks over to Flag to see how he’s dealing with this sudden influx of activity and make sure he’s not getting too worked up or stressed out. But the heart monitor’s still showing a slow and steady heartbeat and he doesn’t seem to be panicking. If nothing else, he actually looks touched. He’s looking out at GQ and Diablo and the rest of the team like he can’t even believe they’re really there. It makes everything they’ve been through and done in the last 24 hours or so feel all the more worth it in Floyds mind.

Zoe stirs in his arms and he looks down just in time to see her eyes open.

“Morning sweetheart.”

“Morning daddy.”

“Look, there’s someone who wants to say good morning too,” Floyd says, motioning towards the bed with a tilt of his head.

Zoe turns around excitedly and when gaze eyes land on Flag’s eyes looking at her she immediately leaps out of Floyd’s arms with an enthusiastic, “Uncle Rick!” and rushes over to his side.

The inability to communicate seems to be annoying the hell out of Flag, even Floyd can see it. “It’s fine, man, just take it slow.” He says, trying to placate Flag’s rising frustration.

“It’s alright, Uncle Rick,” Zoe says, reaching over to take his hand in hers. She smiles when his fingers slowly curls around hers in comfort. “Just squeeze my hand once for ‘yes’ and don’t squeeze it at all for ‘no’, okay?”

A squeeze.

It was weak and almost unnoticeable but Zoe felt it plain as day and her smile couldn’t have gotten any wider.

“Are you in pain? Do you need us to get the doctor?”

No squeeze. Zoe turns to her dad to tell him.

“Everyone’s been really worried about you, Uncle Rick,” she tells him, though it wasn’t a yes or no question, she just wanted him to know that.

Her dad turns to her with obvious pride shining in his eyes, even the others in the room seem genuinely impressed. “Where’d you learn that, Zoe?”

Zoe shrugs. “Just on TV.” Uncle Rick squeezes her hand again, when she turns to him she sees him turning his eyes towards GQ. “Uncle Rick says we should get GQ something to eat before he starts crying.” Zoe tacks on the last part because she knows that’s what Uncle Rick would have said. The mischievous glint in his eye and the almost smile he has on his lips tell her that she’s completely right.

“True story,” GQ says and he suddenly looks so pathetic and starved that everyone takes pity on him.

“I’ll get Commander Joffrey to get us something,” Floyd says with a smirk. Walking around the bed and out the door to go fetch their ever suffering temporary commanding officer. “Hey!” he calls out, the commander is now wide awake and conversing with a few of the men in black still keeping guard around the floor. “Commander—Jeffries—”

“It’s fucking Jeffries, you fuck—” it takes him a good couple of seconds to realize, eventually he settles on a glare that would have put lesser men than Floyd on their asses. “What the fuck do you want now?”

“We could use some food in there. GQ’s about to commit serial cannibalism and the rest of us are pretty hungry too.”

The good commander scoffs, but his perpetual annoyance was slowly becoming something of an endearing trait to Floyd. He turns quickly to one of the agents behind him. “Agent Gumby—I mean Agent Caldwell!—” and it takes all of Floyd’s self-control not shit his pants laughing right then—“Get these assholes food. Sprinkle a little poison on it while you’re at it, it’s fine with me.”

“Make sure it’s organic kosher poison though, Agent _Caldwell_. We don’t fuck with none of that processed stuff. Also get everything on the menu and make two orders of it. Put it on Wallers tab.”

Agent Caldwell Gumby glares daggers at him before he stomps out.

“Thank you Commander Jef—”

“Just get the fuck out of my sight,” the commander orders.

“I was going to say Jeffries, man, chill.”

The man obviously had no chill and Floyd made a mental note to send GQ to hang out with him on his days off.

It was just as case of waiting at that point. Zoe was still at Flag’s side, now perched on the bed beside him asking him simple questions and relaying the answers to the rest of the team. Harley was excitedly asking him questions she knew he’d never answer on a regular day and Flag kept glaring at her but Zoe who was showing tell-tale signs of hidden expertise in the art of grifting was weaving stories that both placated Flag and satisfied Harley. Katana chimed in once or twice in Japanese and Zoe would relay the answer back as best she could _in Japanese_. When someone, he thinks it was Boomerang, asked her where she learned to speak the language she just said, “Anime,” with a shrug like it was the answer to all of life’s questions.

Flag was still completely engaged in everything although he was obviously getting tired. But knowing Flag he’d fight off the tiredness tooth and nail until it finally dragged him back down to the land of unconsciousness.

“You can go to sleep if you’re tired, Uncle Rick, we’ll all still be here when you wake up,” Zoe says, evidently more in tuned to Flag’s state of being than Floyd was. It wasn’t surprising, considering that she’d probably spent more time collectively with him than they had.

Another twenty minutes pass before Flag finally seems like he’s truly losing the battle with sleep, when Agent Caldwell Gumby returns with about four plastic bags filled with sweet aromatic food. Floyd doesn’t know what’s in those bags, but it smells positively heavenly. GQ actually starts tearing up.

Floyd has a wide smile on his face when he looks down at Zoe then at Flag and notices that Flag’s gaze is trained unblinking on the agent standing by the door. The beeping on the heart monitor gets progressively faster, but no one else seems to notice. But from Floyd’s point of view, time seems to have suddenly come to a complete standstill. In this scene on he’s the only one moving, looking at Flag looking at Agent Gumby standing stupidly and slack-jawed by the door. Flag’s gaze is focused, almost panicked and unblinking and he’s suddenly becoming restless again. His Adam’s apple bopping up and down like he’s trying to say something but is unable to and his grip on Zoe’s hand tightens. Zoe looks up between Flag and himself with a confused look on her face.

Something feels very wrong.  Floyd can almost sense the heaviness in the air and his hitman senses go into hyper drive. Everything becomes sharper and more focused. He notices the miniscule details, he recalls the infinitesimal specifics that no one not even he would have noticed on any other day. Like the circumference of a person’s shoulder, the span of their torso, the way the muscles of their shoulders and biceps contract when their arm reaches out. He feels rather than sees Flag turn a panicked gaze towards him, and even though he still couldn’t speak because of the tube in his throat, his gaze alone said everything he needs to say. Floyd could suddenly _see_ everything. The magazine, the scar on his wrist peeking out from under his sleeve when he reached over to pay, the crew-cut Gumby hairstyle being hidden by a Celtics’ cap.

Floyd and Agent Gumby come to the realisation that his identity has just been completely blown at almost the exact same time. The guy spins on his heels in a split second, dropping the bags of food callously to the floor and making a bee line for the nearest exit.

Time resumes at a regular speed and sound returns to the room and before anyone else could gather their wits about them Floyd was yelling out.

“Boom!” he bellowed urgently, attracting everyone’s attention to him, looking towards the Australian downing his beer at the foot of the bed. “Gumby!”

And bless his crass Australian heart, Boomerang without hesitation, second guessing or need for clarification, drops his precious beer to the ground, grabs Lucinda out of the inner pocket of his coat and flings it with precision towards the door. It curves expertly through the air down the corridor and eventually they hear a painful ‘ooomph’ and the sound of a body crashing to the floor, indicating that she’d found her target.

Floyd clasps Flag on the shoulder and looks between him and his frightened daughter and the door, wanting to go out to get the traitor but not wanting to leave Flag or Zoe in case there was a secondary threat present.

“Go!” KC says, waving a giant hand, instructing everyone out the door. “I’ll stay with him,” he adds, making his way quickly to Flag’s right side, expanding himself to his full size and stretching out over Zoe and the hospital bed, grasping the railing on the other side with his right hand, using his body like a shield.  

They didn’t need to be told twice. Harley was twirling her bat in hand, a maniacal grin on her face and was out the door before anyone else could even remember how to put one foot ahead of the other.

KC watches them disappear out the door and returns his attention to Flag, whatever strength he had left seemed to have been completely sapped. His glassy eyes were drooping and everything about his reaction was slow and sluggish. It took him a few seconds too long to react to KC calling his name.

“It’s alright,” he says to the Flag, placing one large scaly hand on his forehead with gentleness betraying his size. “We got your back.”

And that seemed to be exactly what he needed to hear because not a moment later, his eyes were closed and the beeping of the heart monitor slowly evened out. KC was left alone in the room with Zoe staring wide-eyed up at him. “It’s alright little one,” he says in a comforting tone that was obviously not his forte. “The guy’s as good as caught. Waller will know how to deal with him,” he says and Zoe replies with a small nod, looking back at the once again unconscious Flag.

The silence in the room didn’t extend out into the hallway area where the scene was a frantic mess. Commander Jeffries and his men had been attracted by the shout and the sight of one of his agent getting clothes-lined in the back by a fucking boomerang before almost all the squad members came rushing out with _murder_ pulsating in their aura, Harley in the lead and advancing quickly on the cowering agent. Her trusty bat raised high above her left shoulder and with an almost maniacal chuckle she brings the bat down hard, aimed directly at the agents face.

—and misses by a hair width, embedding instead into the wall beside his head, less than a centimeter away from his face.

“Oopsie,” Harley says as the rest of the squad rushes up beside her, Floyd pushes his way to the front and without warning clocks the agent once right in the face.

“What the fuck is going on here?” bellows the commander, rushing up with his men in tow, guns drawn and pointed at the squad.

“This piece of shit is the one who sold Flag out,” spits Floyd, not tearing his eyes away from the cowering man before him.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Call Waller, tell her we found the fucking mole.”

“What mole? What the fuck are you—”

“ _This_ traitor,” Floyd roars, turning towards the commander while pointing an accusing finger at the man behind him, “Is the reason why we’re all here! He sold Flag out to his enemies and almost got him killed. We’ve got him on surveillance camera. We just couldn’t ID him before this. But Flag just did and I’m sure if you run recognition software on the guy in the CCTV footage it’ll come back positive to this sorry fuck. Plus he’s a fucking Celtics fan which is an unforgiveable sin in itself.”

The commander looks like he’s about to say something, but he quickly recovers and calls for one of the men to contact Waller. Surprisingly he doesn’t continue with his twenty one questions and instructs a few of the men to hold Agent Caldwell until Waller arrives.

Floyd is so worked up he can almost feel his heart beating in his ear. He reaches over to place a hand on Diablo’s shoulder and says, “It’s okay man, we got this.” And if he hears the sizzling sound of fire being put out, he doesn’t say anything. Katana reluctantly relinquishes her grip on Soultaker’s handle but her stance remains tense and prepared. Harley is preening herself on the side, a smug look on her face and when Floyd calls her name with accompanying, “Good job,” she smiles so bright even Floyd can’t hold his back.

GQ is looking rather dejectedly between the agent being escorted away and the bags of food laying haphazardly on the floor. “Does this mean we don’t get to actually eat the food he brought?” his tone is so sad no one knows whether to be sympathetic or laugh.

Surprisingly it’s Commander Jeffries who speaks. “I’ll personally go out and get you your food,” he says. His face is pinched and tight and he looks almost ashamed though no one really knows why except for Floyd.

“Thank you, Commander Jeffries,” Floyd says because even he knows that there’s a time and place for everything.

As the commander walks past them, he mutters something completely unexpected in a low tone that only Floyd can hear. For a while he thinks he imagined it, but he’s pretty sure he heard correctly the commander saying, “The Celtics fucking suck,” before he walks away.

Floyd decides that he really was starting to like Commander Jetson and as he shifts his gaze to watch Agent Gumby being escorted off and away from Flag and the rest of the squad, he thinks that if he wasn’t so pissed at the guy he would have been mightily disappointed. The guy was really starting to grow on him too.

They were all too preoccupied with watching the traitorous agent version of the Walk of Shame that they didn’t hear footsteps coming up behind them until the person was about a foot away. It was Diablo who noticed first.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap that’s like the second longest chapter I’ve ever written in my life. So happy with it, but also so glad it’s done. Also the person I had in mind when writing Dr. Parminder, whom she’s also named after is none other than Parminder Nagra of Bend it Like Beckham fame.
> 
> This chapter is for the people who asked about Diablo/GQ “friendship”. Bonus Floyd/Diablo friendship.


	5. Whole Lotta Rosie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slightly longer wait this time. I was running out of pre-written chapters and I was trying to get ahead before I posted. Didn't turn out quite like I planned oh well. This update is to kick ass into gear.
> 
> Warning: graphic and gory subject matter. Description of dead children.

Rick Flag is a man of many flaws, most of which he admits to quite proudly. But if there is one he takes absolute pride him, one thing he would say with certainty that he’s faultless at, is his job. He takes his job very seriously, he works hard at it and he’d be damned not to say that he’s just that fucking good at it too, which is why Flag doesn’t think he’s ever felt as much like a chump as he did at _that_ very moment.

He’s looking at the woman and he sees her lips moving but nothing coming out of her mouth makes a lick of sense, until it does. But then it’s too late. He reaches for his gun, but he can’t really do anything when he feels two shots rippling through his back, sending him crumpling to his knees. The sequence of events that take place after is blurry at best and Flag’s not sure what exactly happened, call it reflex, but soon one of the men in front of him is a crumpled screaming heap on the ground clutching his knee and Flag suddenly feels pain explode in the side of his head. He’s disorientated and in pain, and the last thing he remembers is looking down the barrel of the gun aimed directly at his chest.

That was gonna suck.

Plus what a waste of a perfectly good carton of eggs.

He hears the explosions and he feels the impact and the sudden flare up of intense pain and then there is nothing.

He feels himself floating, which sounds so incredibly cliché it takes all his self-control to keep from reaching over and slapping his ethereal self in the face. But between the bouts of intense pain and blissful numbness Flag remembers very little. He hears voices sometimes, but he doesn’t recognise any of them. He thinks he heard GQ at some point, but that could have just been his mind playing tricks on him. Either that or that was his punishment, being stuck for all eternity in Hell with GQ’s voice stuck in his head. If so then Hell truly was…well— _Hell_.

His most recent and immediate memory is pain. _Lots_ of pain. Like burning embers in on his chest and molten ash in his lungs, burning him from the inside out. Weak people are far too generous with the word pain. To them everything is painful; stubbing a toe, a papercut, biting an un-popped popcorn kernel.  Flag thought getting _not-_ dumped by June was painful, but _this_? This is agony beyond words and description. Second only to accidentally stepping on a Lego, because Lego’s are fucking nasty little bitches that creep up on you when you least expect it. They’re also magical, because Flag has stepped on his fair share of Legos and he doesn’t even own any.

He doesn’t think he knows the woman, but she obviously knew him, she thanked him by name but she called him _captain_. The rank he had during _that_ mission. She’d looked familiar in an unfamiliar way. She looked too similar to not be related in some way to the person whose face still haunts him in his sleep; the face that had at one point actually been a face before the United States Special Forces Recon team emptied almost 200-round of ammo into it. He still remembers what she looked like, he sees her face in his sleep every night when she comes up to him, face mangled and mutilated, a gaping crevice where her chest used to be and she’s carrying a child. The child is limp and dead but otherwise whole, except that the back of her head is gone. She comes to him crying, her words are garbled because her jaw is barely attached to her face. Every night she asks him the same question, _‘Why?’_ and every night Flag wakes up in a cold sweat with what he would never admit to as being tears stinging the back of his eyes.

That mission to this day remains his old shame.

He clutches the grip of the Beretta under his pillow a little tighter than is necessary before he reluctantly falls back asleep.

The suspect had cut and run when the military showed up. He took nothing, he just cut his losses and ran and never looked back. They didn’t know that he had a wife and child. They didn’t know that they had been hiding in the shed outback. They didn’t know that she had been watching from the small window in the side and saw her husband running for the hills. The person who started shooting was just a kid, barely out of high school and straight into the military, Flag couldn’t lay all the blame on him. She had suddenly come out of the shed with a bundle swathed in cloth in her arms. The kid got spooked and just started shooting, then everyone fucking opened fire and by the time Flag’s orders to stop were finally heard from over the sound of automatic gun fire, it had been too late. The woman and her child were dead and the kid would forever be wrecked with guilt for what he’d done. Flag took responsibility for the shooting because he was the team leader and he should have prevented it from happening.

The first time Flag met Lawton he had a distinct sense of déja-vu. Another low-life scumbag with a kid he was going to get killed. At the first sign of trouble he knew the guy would be heading for the hills without a second thought. But then Lawton against all expectation not only didn’t run, but had taken point during the attack. He took out all of the Enchantress’ mooks singlehandedly before any of his men could even reload their weapons and take aim. And then he didn’t run, he didn’t hide, he didn’t even walk away when Flag gave him his chance. None of them did. Even though they didn’t have any reason to stay and even less reason to help him, they did just that. The Enchantress wouldn’t have been stopped, Midway City and probably the world would have been destroyed or enslaved, but it was saved thanks to a bunch of violent criminals and they did all that just because deep down, they were all just decent human beings. So in turn it was Flag’s duty, his honour to treat them as such.

After Lawton had been carted off back to Belle Reve, Flag wasn’t sure why he kept going back to see Zoe, why he asked that first question that in some way had gotten the ball rolling. _‘What you do like to eat?’_ he’d asked her and she’s hesitantly replied with _‘sushi’._ And truth be told, Flag hated sushi. He’d eaten more than his fair share of weird Japanese dishes because of Katana and she tricked him into slathering it all in wasabi. Everyone who meets Katana has the impression that she’s some stoic, apathetic, no fun Japanese samurai when in truth Katana got her kicks messing with people in secret. Sometimes when she and GQ teamed up, then shit would really go down. They seldom interacted, they barely had conversations together outside of missions, hell—Flag was sure GQ didn’t even speak Japanese. But on some days, when the stars shine brightly in the darkened sky and the planets are in alignment, GQ and Katana team up to take the piss out of Flag, and it isn’t pretty.

Flag kind of missed them both all of a sudden. Hell, he even misses fucking Lawton and his gun fetish and Diablo and KC and even Harley calling him cupcake even though he decidedly doesn’t approve of that nickname. Cleary he’s a pastry that’s more hardened and badass and would invoke terror into the hearts of his enemies. Like a Cornish pasty or a meat pie.

But despite his dislike of sushi, he somehow ended up knocking at the front door with a bag of it, and he’s sure the bewildered look on Lawton’s daughter’s face was mirrored on his own. Somehow it just snowballed from there. He stayed with her until her mom and her boyfriend— _Darnell_ , returned. He looked like a decent enough person for a scumbag but Flag hated him on sight. He felt like it was an obligation on his part. Zoe’s mom…well, she obviously had her fair share of problems and Flag wasn’t there to judge, but Lawton obviously loved Zoe more than life itself and Flag felt it was his duty as leader to protect his assets’ investments, although that voice that said that bit in his brain sounded suspiciously like Wallers’.  

So he did his civic duty and checked in on her and the family’s finances. Everything turned out normal so Flag was sure he didn’t need to keep checking in. He would drop by every now and again, see if Zoe needed anything and pass on the update Lawton and keep him placated. But life has a way of not turning out exactly how a person plans, especially if that person’s name is Rick Flag. He finds himself thinking about Zoe more often that he wants to. Has she eaten? Is she alone at home? Who’s walking her to school? Is anyone picking her up? He thinks of these things well into the night and he wakes up in the morning unable to think of anything else. So decided to check in on her once every couple of days, which was the original plan. Then it turned into once a day, bringing her some of the food she’s mentioned liking. Then it turned to more than once a day. Once in a while he’d come all the way over just to walk her back from school. Sometimes they stop for pancakes or burgers and Zoe tell him about her day and he tells her about his day. Sometimes she tells him stuff about Lawton and he feels like he’s gotten to know Lawton better than he ever wanted to. He tells her as much as he can about the squad and what they’re about. He leaves out the part about them being sent out on missions to succeed or to die, obviously. He’s starting to like Zoe more than he intended to. On the days’ where he can’t come, he calls to check up on her. Waller found out their phone number and didn’t even heckle Flag over when he asked her to do so.

Deep down he thinks that this is the universe’s way of letting him make up for what he’s done.

Flag had no expectation of these people going into this, as he’d said to June, one shoots people, one’s a crocodile, one burns people and the other’s just crazy, but as he’d discovered they were so much more than that.

Diablo was moulded by the society he grew up in and by the powers he was born with and unfortunately for him that ended up in tragedy. But this Diablo was also fiercely loyal his family and the people he cared about, and if nothing else, Flag knew that Diablo cared about the squad. He almost died for them once already. KC was just a victim of circumstance. Flag had read through KC’s file and learned that his first kill had been in self-defence. In fact unlike most the squad, Flag included, none of his kills had been outright murder. But as Waller had explained, he was treated like a monster and he became a monster. But he was also the warmest soul and the gentlest person Flag had ever met. Between him and Diablo, they fed a lot of stray cats when out on missions. The one thing he knew about Harley, the only thing he truly needed to know was that Harley wanted be loved. If you earned her affection and love, then she truly would die for you. Flag tried to achieve the first part to prevent that second part from happening.

Lawton, or Floyd, should he say? Since they were—what, friends now? Flag has never really been the friend type; generally he found the human race far too annoying to be around for long periods of time. But he enjoyed time spent with Floyd. He enjoyed their conversations and he respected Floyd as a father. He didn’t hang out with people all that much, mostly his interaction outside his team is with superiors, who all see him as a pawn, a tool. Only June saw him as something other than a mercenary. She saw the man and she saw that he needed love and comfort and she gave him all that. She also snatched it back. He’s not sure why he told Floyd about June leaving that first time he visited him in Belle Reve, but he did feel better after the confession. It felt nice being able to talk to someone as an equal and he knows Floyd appreciated it the same.

His most recent memory is also pain. So much pain but he hears GQ again but he doesn’t understand what he’s saying, like he talking to Flag from underwater. He hears a myriad of other voices as well but they’re all mashed together in one loud indistinct noise. His whole torso feels like it’s on fire and he can’t breathe but he isn’t dying, at least he doesn’t feel like he’s dead yet, so that’s definitely a plus.

He feels a weight on his chest, it isn’t heavy and or particularly painful, but it’s uncomfortable. The voices continue talking and Flag doesn’t know what the hell they’re talking about. Eventually it all trails off into silence, except for one. He can’t hear it, he doesn’t understand the language it’s speaking but he feels something small and cold being placed in his palm by a rough and calloused hand. He hears the voice speaking, but it’s still inaudible. He’s just so tired and before long he doesn’t remember anymore.

He’s floating again but this time it feels weird. Wrong, like he shouldn’t be there. In the distance he hears a flurry of activity and people shouting and his chest feels heavy but nothing hurts. For the first time in recent memory, he feels light, unburdened and it’s a good feeling. But it doesn’t feel right. Everything feels so wrong and his chest keeps on getting heavier and heavier until it starts becoming painful again. The sounds get louder and clearer and he hears a shout and the voice is familiar, but for the life of him he just can’t place it. And then there’s jolt, sudden and abrupt and only a split second but Flag sees his entire life flashing before his eyes. He sees his childhood and the empty bottles laying around the unkempt house. He sees his mother crying in the bathroom and dabbing at her eyes carefully because half her face is black and blue. He sees himself joining the military as soon as he reaches enlistment age. He remembers getting the letter informing him of his mother’s death. They called it an accident. Flag knew it wasn’t. He remembers being on leave. He remembers going back to his parents’ house. He remembers coming face to face with his father, still drunk off his ass, too drunk to realise the person standing in front of him.

He stops remembering then.

Last thing he remembers is looking at the face of a woman and her four year old daughter, but this time she’s whole again and the child is alive. She has penetrating grey-green eyes unlike Flag has ever seen before. She’s glowing and beautiful and Flag is happy he gets to see her whole at least once before he dies. But then he feels a jolt hooking into his insides pulling him back. He doesn’t know what’s happening and the last thing he sees is the woman’s smiling face looking down at him and his own voice whispering into the abyss.

_I’m sorry._

And then he remembers nothing.

He hears. Beeping and hissing sounds and snoring, snarling sounds in the background. That’s the first thing he notices. The second is the weight, spooning him on either side. His entire torso feels numb, from his upper chest to his stomach it feels like an empty gap where his chest used to be. That’s the third. There’s something in his throat and he can’t breathe but he isn’t suffocating, but it feels horrible, like breathing through a straw and he can’t concentrate on inhaling the oxygen into his lung because he isn’t. He doesn’t remember taking those breaths but the oxygen is being pumped into his lungs. He tries to cough to get whatever it is out of his throat but he can’t. He’s choking but he isn’t suffocating, it’s a terrible feeling.

His arms feel like lead when he raises them. It takes forever until he feels them move and he brings his hand up to his face to get whatever it is out of his throat but before he can reach it he feels something else catch his wrist and pull his hand back and he’s too powerless to fight it. He hears voices in the back but he doesn’t understand what it’s saying. He’s choking and he can’t breathe and he thinks that he might be dying all over again. The weight on his left side is gone but he can’t think any more.

Then more hands appears around him, clutching his shoulder and his arm, the palms are calloused but warm and he hears the voice speaking and it makes a bit more sense.

_“—it’s your friend Floyd—”_

He knew a Floyd once. The guy was a gigantic asshole. But he knows that voice and he feels the panic lessening.

_“—all your favourite psycho murderers—for just anyone”_

He remembers his psychotic bunch of murdering thugs. They’re all a bunch of assholes. But he feels an emptiness inside and a longing to see them.

There’s a cold, large hand on his other shoulder and he feels a chill run through his spine. The new voice is deep and guttural and saying so many words that make no sense. He just wants everyone to stop talking, he can’t breathe and he can’t concentrate and he’s never felt so powerless in his life.

There’s a new hand grasping his, it’s soft and delicate and cold but not in an uncomfortable way. The voice is telling him to do something but he doesn’t know what.

“—squeeze my hand—”

That simple request feels insurmountable. His brain is telling his arm to tell his hand to move his fingers. Are they moving? He doesn’t know, everything is numb and cold and heavy and so very difficult. But they doctors sounds pleased. He tries to open his eyes and see what’s happening, but his eyelids feel heavier than his arms and his fingers and he doesn’t even remember if he even has eyes anymore. Everything’s so dark and heavy and confusing. He just wants to go to sleep and never wake up again. But then there’s a voice, it’s different from everything else and so out of place and it’s calling him a name he’s heard only from one person before. He tries to remember but it’s difficult. His brain in muddled and his memories feel like trying to get reception on a broke ass TV with no antenna.

_Zoe._

He remembers.

He feels his eyes slowly opening, but everything is so bright and overwhelming that he almost immediately slams them shut again. But he tries and he hears the voice again welcoming him back. Back where? Did he go somewhere? He looks around for the source of the voice but he doesn’t even know what the person looks like. Everyone in the room looks familiar, but he can’t remember. Eventually his gaze falls on a man standing near the foot of his bed and he looks familiar. But he can’t remember.

But then everyone gets pushes back and out of his line of sight by a flurry of people, a petite female doctor and a couple of people in green scrubs. He can’t remember if he knows these people, but they don’t look familiar. They’re speaking to him in tongues and poking and prodding him and shining a light in his eye and he thinks that he’s actually been captured by the enemy and this is some sort of new, bizarre torture technique. But it doesn’t last long and eventually they all step back. A new figure comes up to him next and she hugs him around the stomach and rests her head on his chest. He thinks it’s his stomach and chest at least, he can’t feel it at all. Then she’s calling him colonel cupcake and all of a sudden all the puzzle pieces seem to slowly come together. He remembers.

It’s Harley.

And he hates that fucking nickname.

He glares at her. At least he thinks he is. She’s still speaking but her words aren’t registering anymore.

Then all of a sudden everyone starting to talk and he can’t concentrate on any of it at all. There’s still a weight on his right side and small hands holding onto his and he looks down at the person and he thinks he knows her but he can’t remember her name. Why is everyone talking at the same time? He can’t even think because it’s so jumbled. He looks around at his surrounding but he doesn’t know where he is and he can’t ask because every time he moves the thing in his throat makes its devious presence known. He didn’t think anything could feel so uncomfortable. Both his hands still feel too heavy to move and he doesn’t have enough strength to pull them of if these people’s grasp. He’s never felt so weak in his life. It’s a horrible feeling.

He sees two people enter the room and his eyes find the gaze of the person he thinks he should know but he can’t remember. But he hears a voice someone in the dark recesses of his mind and it’s saying _‘my friends call me Floyd.’_

He remembers.

 _Floyd_ is talking to him like his words make any sense. But Floyd talking crap is nothing he should be surprised at. He rolls his eyes. At least he thinks he does but everything is so tiring and trying to concentrate is exhausting. He feels his eyes slowly slipping shut and there’s nothing he can do about it. He hears a voice telling him to go ahead a sleep and he remembers. It’s KC.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed only that when he comes back to himself this time everything doesn’t feel quite as muddled. His mind is clearer and his brain isn’t as fuzzy. His chest is still numb and there’s still something in his throat, he can’t speak and he can’t move but at least his mind is his again.

He opens his eyes and this time they don’t feel quite as heavy and the first thing he notices is the bright lights and the white ass walls. It could only mean one thing; _hospital_. He’s only been in a hospital a handful of times in the past and most of them were before the age of fifteen accompanying his mother to the ER and that one time he broke his fist on a guys’ face. But he’s been lucky enough so far to steer clear of this place, obviously until this moment. How did he get here though? He can’t remember, only that there’s an ache deep inside his chest whenever he tries to. He looks around the room, the hall outside the door is silent and deserted, not at all like the hospitals he’d visited in the past that had been bustling with activity. There are no nurses wheeling around patients, no student doctors walking around in cliques trailing after an attending like a clutch of baby chicks, no naked drunk guy on a stretcher wailing for some booze. Everything’s too quiet, except inside the room.

There’s a bizarre noise from somewhere in front of him that he can’t for the life of him make out what it is. It sounds almost like a herd of baby hippos rolling around in gravel. He scans his surroundings with his eyes, because that’s pretty much the only part of him he can currently move without feeling like he’s about to pass out from exhaustion. He finds Diablo, GQ and Harley near the entrance, folded on top of each other and clearly asleep and for a moment he thinks that he’s still stuck in the Enchantress’ bizarre alternate reality where he actually works a nine-to-five job in tech support and June’s at home in their crappy, rat infested apartment raising six screaming kids with another one on the way. But then he remembers June’s _non_ -dumping of him and everything get grounded back in reality. Doesn’t make the scene in front of his eyes any less bizarre. Slightly off to the side he finds a scene, impossibly, even more bizarre. KC is sleeping, causing a mini earthquake to happen every time he exhales, and currently being used as a pillow by both Boomerang and Katana.

Everything is starting to become slightly clearer to Flag, even though none of it makes any sense. But he realised that they’re all really here, and they’re here for _him_. He’s still not sure what happened or why his body feels like he left it behind somewhere in Canada—where his alternate universe self is currently living—but his squad it there, all of them are there, scattered around the room like they’ve been waiting for ages for something. Him? They’re not back at Belle Reve, all of them are in gear and all of them look like they’ve been raked through the mud at least once within the last 24 hours but they’re there sleeping and looking out for him.

Flag is touched and this time he doesn’t pretend not to be.

“Hey, Colonel Flag.” He hears the voice calling him and he has a sense of déja-vu of eating sliders and talking about moonshine and gun magazines and it feels like it happened a thousand years ago. “’Bout time you came back down to this mortal plane with us peasants.” He shifts his gaze towards his right side and finds Floyd’s almost teary eyes staring back at him. He hates this kind of touchy-feely crap and he has half a mind to tell Floyd to knock it the fuck off, but he can’t. His gaze shifts lower and there’s a kid in Floyd’s lap and for a minute he thinks who the fuck would leave their kid there with these bunch of wackjobs. But then he realises that it’s Zoe. Floyd says, “GQ brought her over last night; turns out he’s as big a deceiver as you are. I guess he learned from the best.” He doesn’t know why he finds that amusing but he did and he almost laughs but he can’t get enough air around the tube and it starts choking him again. He immediately regrets that decision.

He feels Floyd’s hand on his shoulder and he subconsciously feels himself calming down. Floyd’s saying something but he isn’t really listening anymore. He hears the name Darnell and the word thank you and he thinks he knows the gist of what Floyd’s talking about. He tries to form the OK with his fingers but he doesn’t know if he succeeded, everything still feels numb. He notices movement out of the corner of his eye and sees GQ slowly getting to his feet. He’s talking but Flag can’t really concentrate on his words, his ears are buzzing. Slowly everyone starts coming around and he looks at every single one of his teammates and all of a sudden he feels warmness in the pit of his stomach that he can’t explain. He tries not to let himself get all sappy and sentimental about it like Floyd but he doesn’t think he succeeds.

He looks back towards Floyd in time to see him nod his head in his direction and he finds Zoe’s happy and excited gaze on him.

“Uncle Rick!” she squeals and jumps off her fathers’ lap and hurries to his side.

He has a million questions running through his mind but he can verbalize none of them. He can’t swallow, he can’t talk, he isn’t even inhaling the oxygen entering his lungs on his own and he doesn’t think he’s ever found himself in such a defenceless position before. It’s eye opening and incredibly frustrating. He can feel his heart beat quickening and his chest feels heavy with the frustration.

Then there are small warm hands circling his and he grasps onto it like an anchor. Zoe is speaking and he has to concentrate to really understand what she’s saying. She’s asking him to squeeze her hand for yes and whether he understands. And he finds his mind clearer for the first time in a while. He squeezed back as hard as he could, he doesn’t know of he succeeded, but Zoe’s smiling up at him and he’s glad. She asks if he’s in pain, but he isn’t. He’s still numb. She tells him that they’ve been worried about him and he doesn’t know how to react to that. He looks over at GQ, and Flag has been around enough dogs and animals to know the look of one that’s half starved, and GQ looked exactly like that at the moment. He squeezes Zoe’s hand again and motions towards GQ with his eyes, hoping that Zoe will understand. She does, and Flag’s not really surprised because he’s seen first how smart she truly is. She even tacks on a commentary of something Flag definitely would have said and Flag doesn’t think he’s ever felt prouder. Was this how being a parent felt like? Because he hates to admit it, but it isn’t a bad feeling. But then again, being in charge of the squad feels like he’s a single dad to the worst group of grown ass kids in the world.

Floyd leaves to presumably get food and Boomerang lifts Zoe up onto the bed besides Flag so that she didn’t have to stand awkwardly or let go of his hand to lift herself up onto it.

The moment Floyd leaves the room though, Harley pounces, her eyes gleaming and a wicked grin on her face that Flag did not like one bit.

“Are you still a virgin?” she asks, looking at Flag then at Zoe and Flag almost chokes again but this time not because of the tube. “Are you in love with Lawton?” She adds and Flag kind of wishes that someone would suddenly pop up and shoot him in the ears so that he didn’t have to listen to Harley’s dumbass questions.

Zoe’s completely unruffled by the line of questions though. “Uncle Rick once visited the Virgin Islands,” she says, and Flag wanted the bed to swallow him up right then. “Now they’re just known as The Islands.”

KC bursts out into unexpected laughter suddenly and everyone follows suit soon after. Even Diablo’s laughing and Flag doesn’t think he’s ever seen Diablo look so relieved and unburdened. He can’t say he dislikes the sight. He sees GQ about to make a comment and he glares the remark right back into his mouth.

“And Uncle Rick loves you all equally. When he doesn’t feel like throwing you all off a building.”

Everyone’s laughter gets even louder and even Rick is amused. He feels a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as awkward as it probably looks. Zoe looks pleased and Flag didn’t think he could feel so happy at the sight of another person’s child being happy.

Katana steps forward and pins him with an intense look. “Anata wa mada watashi no shitsumon ni kotaete imasen.” She says and Flag glares at her right back. He squeezes Zoe’s hand once even though he doesn’t know how that conversation is even going to happen.

But Zoe continues being completely unruffled. “Hai, kare wa tanoshimi o motte imashita.” She says and no one in the room knows how to react. Even Flag is staring at Zoe in unconcealed awe. Katana’s brows are almost in her hairline but she’s smiling, one of the first and few genuine smiles he’s ever seen on her face. She only says, “Yokatta,” and she’s looking at Flag and Flag pretends not to notice the shimmering of tears glistening in her eyes.

Someone asked her how she’s so proficient in the language and Zoe just says _anime_. Everyone but Harley seems confused, Flag is amused and Katana is actually laughing.

Floyd returned to the room at some point and Flag didn’t even notice.

Everyone keeps on asking questions—Boomerang asked whether he’s a beer man or a whiskey man, and Flag kind of wanted to slap him upside the head. He squeezes Zoe’s hand once and Zoe, the cheeky little thing, just replied with, “Yes”.  Everyone chuckled but Boomerang seemed to find it a perfectly acceptable answer.

He doesn’t know how much time passed but slowly he feels the energy being drained out of him. His eyelids start growing heavier and heavier until he can barely keep them open, but he doesn’t want to sleep. He’s had enough sleep to last him a lifetime. He wants to stay here with everyone. Even Zoe tells him to sleep but he’s tired of sleeping, so he tries to keep the tiredness at bay.

It feels like hours have passed when he doesn’t think he can stay awake any longer and then _he_ shows up. He’s standing at the door with bags of food hanging off his arms and GQ looks about ready to kill him and take the food, or eat him and _then_ take the food, but there’s something about him that Flag can’t place, he’s never seen that man before, except that he has. He looks different because Flag only saw him from behind walking away.

From the newsstand.

The owner of the newsstand is a bearded, portly man, slightly older than Flag but obviously not from around there. He doesn’t look familiar to Flag at all, even when he’s smiling at Flag as he hands back his change. His smile is exactly the same as when he cocked the gun and fired three shots into Flag’s chest.

Then Flag suddenly remembers. He was younger and thinner, he didn’t have a beard back then and his face was wrinkled with disdain and anger when the soldiers hauled him off towards the back of the military vehicle. He didn’t recognize the man’s accomplices besides the woman who shared the same face as the one who haunts Flag in his nightmares. He doesn’t know them, but he remembers a man walking away just before he arrives at the newsstand and spots the Guns and Ammo magazine. The man isn’t doing anything in particular but he does look back once to stare at Flag a little too long to not be suspicious. It shows just how complacent Flag had become in his life that he didn’t immediately realize that something was wrong. But the eyes looking at him that night they’re the same exact eyes staring back at him from the door. He knows he’s back to finish the job and Flag knows he needs to warm the squad. He needs to warn Floyd. They need to get Zoe out of there. He tries to speak but the words won’t form in his throat and he’s choking again. He squeezes Zoe’s hand but he doesn’t think she understands—why would she? He needs to tell someone but he can’t and his chest starts to hurt. He looks to Floyd as a last resort, hoping that Floyd can see what he’s trying to say, that Floyd would understand.

But Floyd’s not looking at Flag when he turns his gaze onto him. They’re trained unblinking on the man at the door. When Floyd finally turns to look at Flag in the eye, Flag can see plain as day the words that gaze is saying back to him.

_I got this._

What happens next is too quick for Flag’s sluggish brain to follow. He hears Floyd shouting and he can feel the tension in the air. Zoe grips his hand tightly and Flag does all he can to squeeze back. There’s a flurry of activity around him and suddenly a large shadow falls over him and he hears a loud gravelly voice saying “Go!” and then suddenly there’s silence in the room besides Zoe’s hitches breathing beside him and the sound of KC snarling close to his ear. He feels a large, cool hand covering his forehead and KC’s voice saying in the most gentle tone Flag’s ever heard coming from him. “It’s alright. We got your back.” And Flag has no doubt about it. He can’t keep the tiredness at bay anymore and with one look at KC’s reptilian face and the warm, fanged smile looking back down at him, Flag falls into blissful unconsciousness, for the first time in his life, he has no doubt that he’s completely safe.

His slog back into consciousness is slow and frustrating. For one thing, everything now fucking hurts. His chest feels constricted, congested and tight and his insides feel like they’re on fire. His legs feel cold and numb right down to his toes like he’s been sitting in a tub of ice from the chest down for hours. His head is pounding and his entire body feels like someone tucked him into a heated blanked in the middle of summer. He feels like he’s burning up, but at the same time he’s so cold.

He recalls the feeling of being completely numb and he misses it terribly. He doesn’t know how many hours it’s been and a sluggish glimpse around the room tells him absolutely nothing except that GQ and the squad finally got some food to eat, judging by the paper food wrapper scattered on the floor outside his room. But his room is empty and he didn’t think the sight would affect or disappoint him as much as it does. He’s still incapacitated, confused and in pain and he’s still unable to speak. He’s never felt so vulnerable in his life.

There’s movement on his right and he turns his gaze towards the source and finds Zoe’s smiling gaze looking down at him.

“Hi, Uncle Rick. Are you feeling a little better?” she asks and immediately reaches over to grab his hand. Flag finds comfort in the act and he’s incredibly grateful for her being there and helping him communicate, he doesn’t think he can even begin to explain it.

He squeezes her hand and her smile only grows.

“Daddy’s outside with everyone talking with Mrs. Waller about the agent. They said to call them when you woke up.”

Flag nods in understanding once, closing his eyes to try and absorb the situation. So many things happened at once he didn’t even know how to begin processing it.

“Also,” Zoe says, bring his straying attention back to her. “Someone’s here to visit you,” she adds, and only then does Flag notice the figure that’s been standing in the back, off to one side. At Zoe’s beckoning the person walks closer into Flag’s line of sight and Flag would have gasped if he could.

June.

“Hi, Rick,” June says with a sad smile and Rick’s pretty sure he’s definitely still stuck in one of Enchantress’ fantasies, that or he’s becoming delirious because despite what he conveyed to Zoe just a few seconds earlier, he really doesn’t feel all that good. “I just found out what happened and I hopped on the first plane back,” she says, walking over and taking a seat on a small section of bed by his side. “But I heard you had a whole bunch of people looking out for you.”

Flag doesn’t really know what to say to that. He doesn’t really know how to react or what to think. June’s sitting right in front of him and she’s actually real and she acting like everything’s just back to normal, like she didn’t jump dumped his ass with barely a warning. Flag’s really glad to see her but he’s also kind of pissed. It’s an emotion he didn’t allow himself to feel when she wasn’t around but now looking at her sitting, smiling in front of him, looking healthy and glowing and sun-kissed while he probably looks even worse than he feels, a tube shoved down his throat and feeling like he just got steamrolled into a scorching hot pavement. But then his chest starts feeling really heavy and tight and his head is still pounding, he can’t even concentrate.

“Rick?” he hears June calling him and reaching over to the other side to grab his free hand.

“Uncle Rick?” he hears Zoe and he doesn’t like the concern he hears in her voice, he wants to let her know he’s okay but he can’t see her or June anymore, everything’s just dark. It takes a few seconds before he realises that his eyes are closed. “Uncle Rick, are you okay?”

He wants to squeeze her hand to let her know that he’s okay, but all of a sudden he just feels completely worn out. An uncomfortable heaviness has set inside his chest and he can’t even find it in him to struggle against the ventilator anymore.  Everything feels so hot, but he’s freezing on the inside.

“Rick, are you alright?” he feels June reach over to brush a stray hair off his forehead and the feeling of her cool palm on his burning forehead feels like heaven. “He’s burning up,” he hears her say, but she isn’t talking to him.

“Do you want me to call a doctor, Uncle Rick?”

He doesn’t want to squeeze her hand and worry her. He’s just feeling a little under the weather, it’ll pass because she’s there and June’s there and Floyd and the squad are somewhere close by. He knows everything is going to be just fine. He doesn’t want to worry her.

He feels his fingers curl around her hand despite himself.

Maybe a doctor wouldn’t hurt though because he doesn’t really want to die from a bug. He lived through getting shot five fucking times, dying because of a cold would fucking suck.

Soon he doesn’t feel Zoe’s small hands in his anymore, but June’s still there running her fingers through his hair and whispering words into his ear. He’s pretty sure she’s speaking in tongues because he can’t understand a word she’s saying.

“I’m sorry I left, Rick, but I’m here now and I’m not going anywhere ever again, I promise.”

And it might be the delirium talking, but he wants to believe her. He cracks open his eyes to look at her and she smiles a sad smile down at him when she notices.

She’s forced to move out of the way when the doctor and nurses enter though. Out of the corner of his eyes he notices the rest of the squad and Waller entering the room immediately after them but he can’t concentrate on any of them. He tries concentrating on looking at the doctors’ face, but even that feels like a feat. His eyes are drooping and his consciousness waning and the last thing he remembers is a flash of green before everything becomes dark.

He’s only vaguely aware of what’s going on around him after that, he still feels awful but slightly less so, it’s more like he’s currently stuck in his body realising everything that’s going on around him but not feeling it. It’s not really a bad thing. He’s pretty sure he heard the doctor evict everyone from the room and now it’s just him and the flurry of medical personnel around him doing god knows what.

“Colonel Flag, can you hear me?” he’s pretty sure it’s the lady doctor from earlier, he can hear her but that’s pretty much it. “Can you squeeze my hand, colonel? Just like earlier.” He tries to but it doesn’t seem like he succeeded because the doctor keeps on repeating the request. Eventually she gives up and he feels his hand being placed gently on his stomach. “You have some secretions built up and we’re going to have to suction the breathing tube, colonel. It’s why your chest is feeling heavy and tight. You’re also running a bit of a fever; after we’re done we’re going to give you some antibiotics to bring the fever down.  It’s going to be very uncomfortable but we’ll try to do it as quickly as possible, okay?”

He’s not sure what he’s supposed to say to that, he assumes he’ll just have to lie down and take it like a man.

The doctor was right; it was uncomfortable and very, very awful. It—without a better way to describe the whole process—sucked. He’s pretty glad he currently feels so disembodied from himself that he can’t even imagine how it’d feel if he was fully aware. It felt like the doctor was trying to suck out one of his lungs—or both and suffocate him to death while doing it. He’s glad that’s over with. The nurses continue to fiddle with the IV and the tubes around him and he just wants them all to leave. Like he didn’t feel like crap enough already.

Eventually, it feels like hours passed even though he’s pretty sure it’s only been maybe ten minutes, even his time coordination isn’t as fucked up. Maybe June being here did give him some of his mojo back. He still feels like his skin is prickling with fire while his insides are chilled to the bone, but at least his mind is still clear.

“We’ll send your team back in here but try to get some rest. Your body’s still trying to recuperate from the trauma that’s been inflicted on it.” He hears the doctors’ words but he still can’t open his eyes. He’s not sure what happened after that because there’s a blissful calm and darkness that he’s come to recognise as sleep. He doesn’t even realise when everyone comes back into the room.

There’s coolness on his forehead that’s both comforting and heavenly. It’s a blissful respite and a welcoming feeling as he wades his way back into consciousness for what feels like the twenty-fifth time that day. If this is what it’s like to be sick then Flag is glad he doesn’t get sick often. He’s pretty sure the last time he got really sick was also the last time he sent GQ out to buy food when they’re on a mission in a third world country. Till this day GQ still doesn’t admit that the tacos did indeed taste funny. That was the first time he truly contemplated committing murder-suicide.

The coolness disappears and he almost calls for it to come back.

He manages to crack open his eyes and it takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the light and to being conscious. He sweeps his gaze once across the room. KC’s on the floor in the far corner where he’s obviously laid claim, playing what looks like poker with GQ, Boomerang and Harley. Katana’s taken over Diablo’s position, sitting stretched out in the middle of the doorway sharpening her sword, not at all _trying_ to look menacing but achieving the effect just the same. Diablo is—he scans around, but finally finds him sitting in a chair on his left, almost by the head of Flag’s bed. He knows he’s grown sloppy because of all this sleep he didn’t even notice Diablo almost right beside his head. He’s sitting there in all seriousness and deep concentration reading a book that is all too familiar: How to Take the Grrr Out of Anger.

The coolness returns to his forehead and his eyes sluggishly looks towards the figure still perched on the bed. It really wasn’t a dream.

“Welcome back, sleepyhead,” June says with a smile, reaching over to adjust the cool damp cloth she just placed on his forehead. From the far corner of the room Flag heard a triumphant declaration of “Go fish!” before all the attention snaps towards him at June’s words.

He senses movement from his right side and sees Floyd and Zoe appearing in his periphery. Zoe makes a beeline for his hand, a wide smile on her face. “Are you really feeling okay this time, Uncle Rick?” she asks, her smile dropping slightly and Flag feels like the world biggest asshole at that moment.

He squeezes her hand firmly, wiping the hesitance completely from her face.

“You gotta stop doing this to us, Flag,” Floyd says as he approaches. “It’s not good for Diablo’s heart. The guy was fucking bawling.”

“Hey, fuck you ese. I just got a lot of feelings,” Diablo argues, but there’s no real bite to it and he’s even smiling a little. “Flag’s mi hermano, you know.”

Flag is touched; he tries not to let it show.

“I finally got some food, Rick. What a time to be alive,” he hears GQ says and all of a sudden he’s struggling to remember the taste of food. When was the last time he actually ate? Or drank anything? Besides feeling parched he’s not all that hungry and it’s a really weird feeling.

“Okaerinasai,” he hears Katana say before Harley smothers him with her entire being. “We missed you, cupcake. You’ve really got to stop almost dying you’re starting to take all the excitement out of it. Remember the boy who cried wolf? In the end the wolf fucking ate him.”

Flag’s not exactly sure where she’s going with this but he still hates that fucking nickname. He much prefers having Waller call him a little bitch in front of his whole team instead.

“Nice to see you with us again, Colonel Flag.” Flag should be less surprised than he is at the voice. After all, speak of the Devil and all that. Waller approaches the bed casually, arms clasped behind her back and everyone’s quick to move out of the way. GQ who was in the middle of a comment immediately shut his mouth and snapped to attention. She stops by his bedside and steadies him with an unreadable gaze. Flag is unnerved to say the least. “All the threats have been neutralized. You don’t need to concern yourself with the details as of yet, the squad will fill you in on it when you’ve decided to stop almost dying every fifteen minutes. Just rest assured that everyone’s involved in this attack has been taken care of. You just concentrate on getting better—” Flag’s pretty touched that Waller seems genuinely concerned— “Having to find another person to be in charge of this bunch of no good criminals is going to be a pain in my ass. Make sure it doesn’t come to that—” slightly less touched, but that’s as close to Waller ever admitting concern as they come. Flag will definitely take it.

Waller disappears out of the room as ominously as she appeared, leaving a cold feeling deep in everyone’s guts. Boomerang actually shudders slightly.

“I really, really like her,” KC says with an appreciative glance in the direction Waller disappeared towards.

No one has anything to say to that.

Flag really hates himself because he can feel himself drifting off again. He’s tired of sleeping and as someone who once listed ‘sleeping’ as special skill on a job resume, that’s saying a lot. No one around seems that surprised to see him dozing off though. He just feels Diablo patting him on the shoulder and Floyd whispering, “No wet dreams about June this time,” and he struggles to squeeze Zoe’s hand once before he’s lost to the world again. He feels KC, Harley, Katana and GQ slowly drift back towards their respective corners in the hospital room.

The last thing he remembers is looking at June’s face, her beautiful face that he missed so damn much, and her warm gorgeous blue eyes looking down at him. He blinks once, and suddenly her eyes are green and they’re glowing but it’s still June’s pure, beautiful face he’s looking at and her warm smile he sees before he disappears into the land of unconsciousness once again. The difference this time is it’s the most peaceful, uninterrupted sleep he’s had since he was about seven years old.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  This chapter is for the person on tumblr who asked me about June/Enchantress. I reiterate, I think you might be happy.
> 
> _Anata wa mada watashi no shitsumon ni kotaete imasen - You didn't answer my question._
> 
> _Hai, kare wa tanoshimi o motte imashita - Yes, he did have fun._
> 
> _Yokatta - I'm glad._
> 
> It's a throwback to the first chapter's conversation with Katana.


	6. Baptism by Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t read the comics, so like with Rick Flag’s past, I’ve probably taken liberties with Chato Santana and Diablo’s backstory.

Sometimes he thinks of Chato Santana as an entirely separate entity.

They share the same past and childhood memories sure, maybe even the same interest and the same type of woman. But the difference is that Chato Santana was just a man, he was flesh and blood and bone and he bled red when they cut him. His blood flowed crimson when they shot him and Chato Santana died a long time ago. Long before his own blood started boiling under his skin. Long before he burned rival gang members alive. Long before he roasted those people in that prison yard and smelled the stench of their boiling organs from ten feet away as he laughed. Long before he murdered Chato Santana’s wife and kids with his raging fury in their home. Long before he came back to life as El Diablo, the demon.

He isn’t a man; he’s a monster, born of fire and brimstone. Everything he touches turns to ash and coal and burning molten liquid. This curse was gifted by the devil himself as a joke towards humanity and towards mankind, which is why he took his name, cause if nothing else, he knew his destiny was to bring on the end of the world with his own two hands. He shouldn’t be around others; he should be locked up inside an inescapable pit and thrown into the center of the earth, left to rot with the relics and the ruins.

He’s the devil in human form and he deserves to be treated as such.

“Uhh—U-Uncle Diablo?”

Diablo gets yanked out his grim thoughts by a soft, inquisitive voice and looks up to see a pair of bright eyes peering innocently back at him.

“Dad wanted me to ask if you wanted the last candy bar. GQ’s been eyeing it shiftily for the past fifteen minutes and we don’t think it’s long for this world,” she leans in close to whisper surreptitiously to him. “He’s had seven already.” The both look towards the perp in question who immediately turns away when he catches them looking at him _looking at them_.

It takes Diablo a minute to respond, his mind is still fixated on the words ‘Uncle Diablo’ and for a second he thinks that maybe he heard wrong or whether the blast affected his hearing and he didn’t notice until now. He glances at Lawton who’s standing to the side seemingly involved in a rather intense conversation with June. He isn’t looking in their direction; in fact he has his back to both Diablo and Zoe as if he isn’t at all concerned that Diablo might accidentally burn his daughter where she stood. Lawton doesn’t look the least bit concerned that Diablo could kill Zoe with a snap of his fingers, that he could decimate this entire building in a blink of an eye. None of them look concerned in the slightest and Diablo just doesn’t understand it. Can’t they see the monster that he is? Can’t they see the monster that _he_ sees every time he looks in a mirror?

“Uncle Diablo?”

He hears the words again and it doesn’t sound any less strange the second time around.

“Don’t you want it?”

“I already had one and dad said you didn’t get any, so…” she says almost hesitantly, as if suddenly realising that this was the first conversation she’s had directly with a member of the squad besides Uncle Rick and GQ. She scuffs the floor with the toe of her shoes self-consciously.

 Diablo can’t help it; he smiles a little and reaches over to take the offered candy bar.

“Thank you, Zoe,” he says with a small smile, trying not to stare at the ghostly figure of another little girl hovering behind her from somewhere outside this earthly plane.

“You’re welcome,” Zoe replies happily, beaming as she turns around and skips back to where her dad is motioning animatedly with June.

Diablo stares at the candy bar in his hand for a long while. He can’t even remember the last time he actually ate one, or even thought of one. This particular candy bar dredges up some dark memories from the recesses of his mind though. Chewy nougat with a nutty caramel center should never invoke such terrible and depressing memories but that’s exactly where he finds himself, staring at the innocuous candy bar in hand and trying to not tear up like a rival gang’s puta.

His daughter loved nougat. He remembers her asking him to buy some if he was going out.

He was indeed going out, not for chocolate but for blood.

His daughter never got her candy bar.

His home burned to the ground and his family expired in a horrific fiery rage.

“Psst, Diablo,” he hears the voice whispering surreptitiously close to his ear. “You gonna eat that?”

He levels GQ with a penetrating stare, never once breaking eye contact once as he tears into the wrapping and takes one big bite of the chocolate bar. _Too fucking sweet._

GQ throws his hands up with an annoyed _fine_ and retreats dejectedly back towards the far side of the room. Diablo doesn’t know whether to roll his eyes or laugh. He’s met a lot of bizarre, eccentric people in his days, but GQ is by far the most peculiar. For one thing, even more so that Floyd and the rest of the squad, GQ shows absolutely no signs of being even remotely afraid of him. He stands a little too close for comfort, even when Diablo can feel the fury bubbling from under the layers of his skin. He smells his own rancid flesh burning and he knows other people can smell it too.  But GQ just doesn’t seem at all concerned. He’s been scorched and singed from standing too close to El Diablo when he surfaces, but it doesn’t seem to be stopping him from continuing to do so.

Diablo has seen it, the burns on GQ’s chest and back. He doesn’t know if they’re from the detonation he set off or from the fires of El Diablo when he wrapped himself around the young lieutenant and protected him from the blast. But they were there, constant reminders of the dangers of not respecting the flames of diablo, but no one in this room seems to grasp that fact; not GQ, not Lawton, not Flag, not Harley who keeps draping herself all over him and kissing him on the cheek and hugging him from behind. Diablo thinks these people are the stupidest, craziest pandejos he’s ever met in his life.

And he’d die for every single one of them.

Lawton’s still arguing about something intense with June in the corner, he hears the words astronauts and cavemen being thrown around a lot and he has absolutely no clue what that conversation could be entailing. Zoe seems infinitely amused by the entire exchange as she glances back and forth between her father and the young anthropologist. KC is back in his nook looking mightily content and full, using a sharped metal chopstick to pick at the food remnants in his teeth. Diablo doesn’t have to look at Boomerang to know that he’s probably magicked a new six-pack of beer from the pocket of space and time in his ratty coat. A glance over at the Australian in question proves Diablo wrong. This time it’s a crate of beer.

He’s somewhat surprised by the lack of Harley anywhere in his vicinity though and a glance around the room finds her and Katana engaged in a conversation in Japanese by the entrance. Katana seems to be in the middle of explaining something and Harley has a wide, awed gaze on the sword in Katana’s hand. Diablo has the demonic spirit of death living inside of him and he’s pretty sure he would never want to be standing in the path of that particular duo.

GQ’s retreated like a kicked puppy to Flag’s bedside and occupying the seat vacated by Lawton.

Rick Flag is another enigma Diablo still can’t figure out to this day. He hasn’t show a scrap of fear for Diablo from the first time they met and continues to be completely unafraid and undaunted by El Diablo’s powers and his fury. Diablo would call him stupid if he didn’t respect him so much.

In the streets where he grew up, even as a child when these demonic powers were nothing but a scary story his abuela used to tell the children at night to keep them in line. Back then it was never about _who_ you were, it was always about what you could do. If you could kill, you would survive. If you were afraid to take another person’s life, that person would take yours without a thought. He was barely into his twenties when he spared someone’s life, and because of it he almost became a statistic, he almost joined so many of his friends and family in the afterlife.

Getting shot was a terrible experience. In that moment, Diablo sympathised with Flag. But Flag survived even without making a deal with the devil and for that Diablo respected him more.

He was bleeding out and in pain, paralysed and dying, his rage and anger directed at his weakness rather than at the betrayal.

He saw the burning embers and scorching fires of hell right before his very eyes and a disembodied voice speaking to him from beyond the flames. He could only see vengeance and the cowards who wanted him dead and he said yes without a second thought.

He killed people. He killed people for El Diablo. He killed people for him. He killed because he enjoyed it.

He killed Chato Santana’s wife and kids and for the first time, he wished he died the day he got shot.

And then this guero, Rick Flag shows up one day and doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.

Diablo looks over to the bed and the still unconscious colonel occupying it. It’s the healthiest he’s looked since the whole fucked up situation started. Dr. Parminder and a couple of nurses had come over sometime after he nodded off again and removed the breathing tube, replaced it with one of those see through oxygen masks  and deep down Diablo’s pretty glad. He hates seeing the colonel so weak.

He likes Flag as he likes the whole team and he’s not afraid to show it. He knows the feeling of loss and not being able to tell someone how much they mean until it’s too late. It may be too late for Diablo to experience happiness but maybe it’s time to stop being Diablo and be Chato Santana again.

“Yo, Diablo. You gonna eat that chocolate bar or you gonna stare at it all day? It ain’t gonna turn into come hot mamacita if that’s what you’re hoping.”

He hears the rumbling voice and looks over to KC guffawing in his corner. He realises that he has indeed been staring at the half eaten bar in his hand for who knows how long. Long enough to write an entire autobiography of his life in his mind anyway.

He pulls up the excess wrapper and folds it up on itself and tosses it in KC’s direction. “You can have it.”

He’s decided that he’s not really fan of chocolate anyway. He notices GQ looking at him with such an intense glare of betrayal and laughs.

“Gracias mynachos,” KC says and Diablo is too amused to want to correct him.

“Don’t like chocolate?” Lawton asks as he sidles up, whatever debate he was having with June apparently concluded. June glaring daggers at the back of Lawton’s head from the far corner of the room was evidence to the contrary.

“Nah. Decided that it’s not really my thing. You and June okay? Colonel’s going to be sad if you and his cariño don’t get along.”

Lawton scoffs once. “Margaret Mead over there just doesn’t know what the hell she’s talkin’ about.”

“How do you even know who Margaret Mead is?”

“In case you haven’t noticed I have a school aged kid who needs help with homework sometimes. How the hell do _you_ know who Margaret Mead is?”

“Despite what you may think, I do read, ese. And in case _you_ haven’t noticed I’m pretty sure help is the last thing Zoe needs when it comes to homework. Especially from you hermano.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure I’ve already heard that one from Flag. How’s he doing?”

Both of them glance over at Flag, watching his chest rise and fall with each shallow breath.

“Still the same. Colonel’s sure taking his sweet ass time waking up.”

“You know these white boys, absolutely no sense of punctuality. Even G. I. Joe Rick isn’t exempt from the rules looks like.”

As if Flag had been secretly listening in to their conversation or something in his gut was stimulated by the criticism, he chooses that exact time to stir.

Everyone convenes on him almost automatically at this point.

“Flag? You with us, man?” Lawton says, hovering close over Flag’s bed.

The Colonel’s eyes crack open almost painfully slow as it takes him an additional few minutes to readjust his bearings. It takes him a couple of seconds more before he realises that he’s finally free of the breathing tube and he subconsciously takes in a bit too deep of a breath, sending him into a painful coughing fit. He barely makes a sound besides the deep, wet rumble of the mucous build up in his lungs. It sounds as painful as it looks and he curls in on himself.

But everyone is there reaching out trying to comfort him, Zoe in the foreground latching onto his hand like it’s her most favourite doll.

“It’s okay, Uncle Rick,” she says and Diablo realises that she’s the only person in the room who truly knows the feeling and has the experience of taking care of another human being, if what Lawton’s told him about his ex-wife had any steam. Lawton only knows how to take care of his daughter, KC, Katana and Harley—well, should speak for itself. GQ seems like the only thing he knows how to nurse is a tub of rocky road ice-cream. As for him, Diablo barely remembers the feeling of being an actual human until recently.

There’s also June who’s right by Flag’s side, stroking his hair back gently and wiping the beads of sweat off his forehead.

Flag’s got way too many chica’s converging over him than is necessary.

“You back on planet earth with us, Colonel?” he asks as he bends down closer to Flag.

Flag cracks an eye open to glare at him, he’s still struggling not to choke on the breaths he’s taking and Diablo sees his lips move, but no sounds come out. Although he didn’t need any sound to know exactly what Flag just said.

_Fuck you._

And for the first time in what feels like weeks of anxiousness and worry, when in reality it’s been barely four days, Diablo thinks that Flag is definitely going to be okay.

Which in hindsight, he should have known wouldn’t bode well with the rest of them freedom-wise.

Amanda Waller comes and she’s only missing her white horse.

Even the devil latching onto his very soul cowers when she shows up at the door.

“Good to see you all spruced up, Rick. As I said, finding someone willing to take over the care and feeding of these criminals would have been a pain in _my_ ass. I appreciate you saving me the trouble.”

Flag rolls his eyes but says nothing.

“As you may already know, all but two of the targets in this attack have been neutralised. They’re not going to go on to be a pain in mine or anybody else’s ass any more, least of all yours, Colonel. And you have your team to thank for that. The mastermind is currently in our custody, being interrogated for information while he waits for a fair trial under the laws of out United States government.” – Diablo’s pretty sure he’s getting anything _but_ a fair trial – “As for Agent Caldwell. He’s…being dealt with.”

Everyone in the room collectively agreed that they don’t even want to know what that meant or the implication. They were criminals and killers, but Amanda Waller is evil on an entirely different level. Politicians in government office who just happen to have a rogue group of criminals to do their dirty work level and that fact was both disturbing and scary as shit.

Except Harley. Harley wanted to know every dirty, grimy detail; description of what exactly was being dealt, how many times on which body part and how much loss of bodily fluid resulted from it.

“Did they say why?” GQ asked, interrupting Harley right in the middle of her question-statement on whether Agent Gumby went number one or number two during the interrogation. He’s standing at attention by Flag’s bed, his arms clasped behind his back.

“The reason you already know, Lieutenant Edwards. For Al-Baqhari his was vengeance for his wife and child, or so he says,” Waller and Flag share a silent look. Flag even looks mildly surprised when Waller’s gaze falls on him, signalling to Diablo that as usual, Waller probably know a lot more about the going-ons that people think, which again is both disturbing and scary as shit. “As for Agent Caldwell, fact is it just came down to money. They gave him money, from the sounds of it, a lot more money that than the government would ever squeeze out and he served you up to them on a silver platter.”

“So…” Lawton says, Waller’s silence signalling that she’d said all she’d come to say. He and the rest of the squad share a look between each other. They all knew this moment was coming, it was inevitable, but maybe for a second, they were all just too caught up in the happenings to realise how painful saying goodbye would actually be.

As if on cue, Zoe latches onto Lawton, burying her face in his chest with a distraught “No” and Lawton’s looking like he’s trying hard not to cry himself.

Flag has an expression of regret and shame etched onto his face as he looks away, looking too apologetic for something that is absolutely beyond his control. Diablo knows that, as does everyone else. But they also know Flag and the way he’d heave the brunt of the responsibility onto his shoulders, especially after the events that have taken place over the last couple of days. Maybe he feels like he owes them for saving his life. They did save his life, but he saved theirs first.

“It’s fine ese,” Diablo tells him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Flag doesn’t meet his eyes. “We’ve done the mission. Now it’s your mission to get back up on your pasty ass and be leader of this squad again. You leave Lawton in charge any longer he’s gonna let it go to his big head.”

“Hey fuck you, Blindspot,” Lawton says. He has an annoyed look pasted on like a mask but Diablo can tell that he’s trying not to show how much he’s devastated on the inside. Zoe still has her face buried in his chest and Lawton is latching on like he’s committing every single moment of that hug to memory. Diablo doesn’t blame him, who knows when he’ll be able to see her again.

“I’ll give you a moment,” Waller says before she steps out and for a split second Diablo thinks even she looks apologetic. But then he comes to his senses and thinks that maybe it’s just gas.

The room is silent when she leaves. No one really knows what to say or how to react. They all knew this moment was inevitable, but there’s really no amount of preparation a person can make before getting hauled back to jail. Especially after the couple of days they’ve had. Especially after coming to see the people in the room as something more than just team mates.

“Fuck this shit! It’s not fair.”

Diablo looks over to where GQ just put his fist into the wall behind Flag’s bed. Tears immediately spring to his eyes and no one is sure whether it’s because he’s upset over what’s about to happen or he did more damage to his fist than he’d admit. No one would blame him if it were the former.

“We knew this was going to happen, guys. We’re just the government’s very own bloodhounds. They haul us out to play and fuck some shit up and once we’ve done our job it’s back to the kennels. I don’t know why you’re getting so emotional about it,” Harley isn’t saying anything that they don’t already know or anything that isn’t the absolute truth, but Zoe lets out a small sob from where she’s still perched in her father’s arms and Harley’s face immediately softens. She reached over to ruffle her hair a little but doesn’t say anything else. She knows the feeling of getting ripped out the arms of a loved one.

“There’ll be other missions, mate. Besides not gonna lie, I’m getting a bit nostalgic for the cuisine back at Belle Reve,” Boomerang adds completely unhelpfully but does succeed in lightening up the mood slightly. If just for KC licking his lips as his reptilian eyes followed Boomerang and saying completely as-a-matter-of-factly, “You’re right. I do miss the cuisine, _matey._ Haven’t had me any good Australians in a long while.”

Even Boomerang looks slightly concerned.

“I just want you to know that I’m going to miss you guys. These past couple of days have been the best days of my life and I hope you don’t forget me. Like, you guys are seriously—”

“Get a fucking grip, GQ. We’re going back to prison; we’re not fucking dying no need for the sappy eulogy.” KC again comes in as the voice of reason in the group.

Diablo would never admit it but he feels himself getting slightly misty eyed as well. GQ wasn’t wrong in that aspect. He was going to miss this. _All of this_. Hanging around with these guys in close quarters, being able to look over to one side and see someone he trusted to have his back and in turn someone he’d be willing to take a bullet for. A position pre-squad Diablo would never have envisioned himself in. Then looking over to the other side and see another person who simultaneously annoyed the shit out of him, but whose presence gave him a sense of comfort and safety he hadn’t felt since El Diablo killed his wife and kids.

They’d most likely be sent out on more missions and the camaraderie between them would always be there but he doesn’t think it will ever be quite the same. One the other hand, he hopes that they’ll never find themselves in a situation like this again.

Katana hasn’t moved from her position by the door, head bowed, doing a near perfect impersonation of Flag not meeting their eyes. On the other side GQ is cursing up a storm in various languages and using many pop culture references that Diablo doesn’t really understand. He’s saying things about fisting a selected group of people with something called an infinite gauntlet and hammering it in with a _meowlnir_. But it’s GQ, his eclectic and some might call strange personality is what makes him a perfect fit with the squad so Diablo just rolls with it.

Flag hasn’t said anything or even lifted his eyes off the spot in the corner where something obviously very interesting is taking place inside his head.

Diablo reaches over and places a hand on his shoulder, “Hey, it’s fine, man. We’ll deal like usual.”

Finally Flag glances up to meet his eyes and even though he isn’t outright crying, the emotions on his face and the dampness of his eyes are telling about the guilt he’s feeling. It’s obvious he has so many things he wants to say, but he swallow with difficulty, his throat this raw and swollen from the breathing tube and the only thing he can do is mouth ‘sorry’.

Diablo hates apologies. Apologies are just excuses people get to fall back on after they’ve knowingly hurt another person. You can kill someone and tell their family sorry and even if the family somehow finds it in them to forgive you, the fact is the person is still dead and sorry remains a five letter word that has done absolutely nothing.

But Flag’s sorry is different because he has nothing to be sorry for. He isn’t guilty of getting shot and having them all get involved. He didn’t ask for any of this to happen so Diablo doesn’t interpret his sorry as an apology for them getting sent back to jail. Diablo can see the other words Flag obviously wants to express but can’t; sorry for not being able to change your situation. Sorry you’re being asked to lay down your life for people who don’t care whether you die. Sorry for not being a better leader.

It’s all ridiculous because even Diablo knows that it’s their own decisions that put them in their situation. They’re in jail because choices they made. What Flag and Waller gave all of them is a chance to be more than that, more than criminals and killers and monsters. Maybe it’s even a chance to start making amends. If it even is at all possible.

Lawton kills people for money, given he only kills bad guys, but it doesn’t change the fact that he has blood on his hands. But Lawton is also a doting and caring father whose daughter looks at him like he created the sun and the moon and makes the stars shine in the night sky. She still looks at him with affection and love despite everything he’s done. That fact itself is worth more than all the money in the world.

People look at KC and only see the monster. The dangerous predator. The ugly animal. But KC is one of the gentlest souls Diablo has ever met and he’s proud to call him a friend.

It’s easy to look at Harley and call her stupid and crazy but Diablo sees something completely different. He sees intelligence people usually overlook because of the way she dresses and how she acts. He sees someone who loves too much and loves the wrong kind of people. The first time Harley hugged him and planted a kiss on his cheek Diablo didn’t know how to react, much like when Zoe walked up to him and called him uncle and gave him that candy bar. Because the only difference Diablo sees between Harley and Zoe is their situation and the people they have around them. Zoe’s surrounded by love from her father, perhaps from her mother and stepfather as well despite what Lawton insists. Love and concern from Flag and now love from this group of dysfunctional criminals. Harley loved someone who didn’t love her the way she deserved to be loved but she keeps on persisting. In that sense, Zoe and Harley have the same type of innocence and Diablo would raise hell on earth to protect that. He knows his wife and his children would be proud of him for that.

Boomerang’s the craziest motherfucker Diablo has ever met in his life, but there’s no one he’d trust more to have his back in a fight. Plus he hates to admit it but that pink unicorn is pretty fucking cute.

Then there’s GQ and Katana, straight laced subordinates for all intents and purposes. But the day GQ showed up out of the blue with some CD’s (pretty pathetic white boy taste in music quite frankly) and when he kept showing up even though Diablo kept on telling him to piss off, little did Diablo know that that was the beginning of a really strange and unusual camaraderie, maybe even something he’d call a friendship. And Katana, Diablo doesn’t really know Katana that well, even to this day, but her sheer presence fill him with a sense of security he never thought he’d ever feel in this lifetime. Not only does he know that Katana can fuck some serious shit up, but deep down, he also knows that if it would one day come to that, Katana’s the only one he can really count on to take that step and end it. He would never wish it on her conscience though so he keeps that thought tucked in the back burner at all times. For a group of criminals and a Special Forces guy, the squad and Flag were too fucking soft to muster up the will needed to stop El Diablo.

And Zoe. Dear sweet Zoe. His wife and daughter would have really loved her.

And then Waller appears at the door once again. “People,” she says, her tone icy but he eyes warmer than any of them would have expected.

Zoe cries as Lawton hands her over to June. He looks away, no wanting his daughter to see his own tears. That gets GQ going again as he curses up a storm a second round.

“We’ll take care of her,” June says, hugging Zoe close to her chest. “That’s a promise. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

Lawton just nods, throat too tight to speak. He reaches towards Flag for a handshake and Flag grasps on immediately, they thumbs interlocking in a familiar way. “You take care Flag, and take care of my baby.”

Flag nods, gripping Lawton’s hand tighter.

Lawton plants one last kiss on Zoe’s forehead and immediately marches out, pushing past Waller and not looking back once.

One by one, members of the squad approach the bed and say goodbye to Flag, June and Zoe. GQ has his back to them and Diablo can feel the fires of rage radiating off him. He’s uncharacteristically silent but Diablo can’t really blame him. They’re not the ones watching people they care about getting hauled back to the pits. If it were the other way around, Diablo’s pretty sure he wouldn’t let Flag, GQ or Katana get taken away without a fight, but only because none of them deserved that. They on the other hand, they’re criminals and murderers and the bad guys, they deserve everything they were being dealt.

So why does the thought of leaving the safety of this room and the safety of this squad feel so devastating to his soul?

Boomerang leaves Flag a beer before he marches out, his coat sweeping dramatically. Harley drapes herself over Flag and plants a kiss on his cheek before doing the same with Zoe and June, except she plants a kiss square on June’s lips and just spares her a wink when June stares back wide eyed and slightly confused. It causes Flag to smile a little and Harley beams.

Once by one the squad marches out, shoulders square and heads held high. It’s the first time in their life that they think they deserve to.

Eventually it’s Diablo, GQ, Flag, June and the still weeping Zoe still left in the room.

“I’ll keep an eye on the squad,” he says. It’s the first time in his life he thinks that he truly has the place to say those words and mean it. That he finally found a place with people he genuinely cares about and would die for. After Grace and his kids, he didn’t think that day would ever come again. But he looks Flag in the eye when he says it and even though Flag still looks broken up about not being able to keep his squad out of prison, for not being able to convey just how much he appreciates what they’ve done, he looks Diablo in the eye and nods.

And Diablo thinks it’s the proudest he’s ever felt in his life.

They’re all going back to jail, their next taste of freedom as uncertain as their own future. But at least he still has the squad and they have each other. Even though they won’t be together, even though they probably won’t see each other until the next mission, at least they still have the memory of this moment and the knowledge that somewhere in that hell of a building, somewhere out in the real world they’ve been able to get a taste of again, there are people who think about them, who consider them worthy of being called friends.

That there are people out there who would care if they died.

That knowledge brings more comfort than any of them would have expected

Diablo walks out of the room without a glance back. He walks past the rows of special agents and military people who stand off to the side but have a different look in their eyes when they look at him, when they look at all of the squad members as they pass by. He thinks the look could even be labelled ‘respect’ and he finds that fact alone infinitely hilarious.

But it doesn’t matter.

Diablo walks down that hospital corridor with his head held high, for the first time in a long time, not feeling weighed down with burden and guilt and shame.

He walks out with Chato Santana on his mind and in his heart, but El Diablo in his soul and for the first time he thinks that _yeah, he’s got this._

**The end.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I’m just kidding. Still one chapter to go people, and I intend to go out with a bang. But since we already had our bang, I intend to go out with a satisfying sizzle. 
> 
> Sorry for the super long wait this time, this chapter was kicking my ass. Maybe because I didn’t intend to write a Diablo POV, it pretty much just happened, so I hope I did it justice. Also to the couple of reviews I hadn’t gotten to, I’m sorry. I’ll get to it soon I promise.
> 
> If you would like to get in on the astronaut vs caveman conversation, I suggest you look at the clip on Youtube in which Angel and Spike argue intently over this subject. This was inspired by that hilarious scene.


	7. Girls Got Rhythm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 17390 words long like daaaamn. So hopefully it makes up for the super long wait.

 It’s been 2 days, 17 hours, 43 minutes and 13 seconds since he last saw the other members of the squad.

It’s been 2 days, 20 hours, 23 minutes and 4 seconds since he last saw Flag, GQ, June and his precious baby, but…not like he was keeping count or anything lame like that.

5 seconds… 6 seconds… 7 seconds…

“Hey Lawton, ya’ decent?”

The sudden loud bang on his metal door sends his mind lurching out of his thoughts. The new guard in charge was already way better than Griggs—who had all of a sudden taken an extended leave of absence out of the blue. Floyd pretends not to know why but since he and Harley are pretty close, he considers himself in the know, on the D.L, hip to be square or whatever it is kids were saying nowadays. He’s sure that the little GQ sitting on his shoulder speaking words of wisdom into his ear would beg to differ.

That didn’t mean that the new guy was any less of an asshole. He was just less ruthless and demeaning about it.

“I know you want sum’ma this, Wilcox, but I’d kindly ask you to keep it in your pressed khakis. You’re not my type.”

The hinges of the door creak and whine and whinge as it opens with an almost painful screech before the big burly man steps into view.

“You should change your nickname to The Comedian, since you think you’re so funny, Lawton.”

He reminds Floyd of Commander Jeffries in a way. He was unapologetically uptight and by the book, but he proved himself entertaining in his own cynical way and Floyd didn’t outright hate his guts, which was always a bonus.

“Pretty sure that would be copyright infringement, but whatever you say. Get to the damn point; you’re making me late for my appointment.”

“Appointment, really?”

“Yeah, really, appointment. Over on that side of the room,” Floyd points towards the far left of his 10 by 10 foot cubicle. “As you can see, I have a hot date.”

“You need to stop cracking me up, Lawton,” he says, with the sternest, strictest expression ever. “But your _date_ will have to wait till after breakfast.”

“You say breakfast, but I see none. There’s one person with an overreaching imagination here and surprisingly it isn’t me.”

But Wilcox pays him no heed, instead motions to the two guards flanking him on either side; the fact that he came over to Floyd’s cell with only two guards (who were both armed) but absolutely nothing else immediately lifted him straight out of Floyd’s shit list. “Biggits, Banks,” he motions with his chin for them to stand at attention on either side of the door. “Lawton. I’ve come here as a courtesy with these two family men who have families they want to go back home to at night. I would appreciate it if you showed as much in return and don’t make a problem for all of us.”

Floyd does like him. A lot. He’s already head and shoulders above that git, Griggs in dignity and composure. At over 6 foot tall, he’s literally head and shoulders above Griggs physically as well.

“Well, far be it for me to keep these men from their families,” Floyd says, trying to mask the twinge of his own sadness at his statement with humour. He raises both hands above his head in a show of peace and steps out of the cell. He feels Wilcox’s eyes looking at him up and down and he tries not to flinch at the intensity in the gaze. Surprisingly Wilcox nods towards the two guards behind him and beckons for him to follow with a nudge of his head. No cuffs, no gurney or straps, no wheelchair; just the three guards and Floyd.

Floyd tries not to let his surprise show outright on his face as he walks in step with the big man down the cold and dreary hall.

He really has no clue what’s happening or where they’re going, usually this situation would have invoked some kind of fight or flight instinct in him, but somehow Floyd felt safe enough, trustful enough of this man he didn’t know to follow him towards uncertainty. Somehow he had a feeling that it had something to do with Flag. This man, Commander Jeffries and Flag, they all had the same type of aura about them, something that felt very military. Floyd didn’t know how to explain it. It was like a scent, but not one you smelled, just one that wafted of their person like an invisible sensation. It commanded respect, but not out of fear, just out of reverence. And this man had it in spades. Floyd had a feeling Flag had a hand in this.

It wasn’t just with what happened with Griggs who gave his 7 day notice but then skipped the whole 7 days of work; 90 percent of the personnel and staff at Belle Reve had been different when they returned.

If not Flag, Floyd was certain it had something to do with Waller.

They end up in a part of the wing that Floyd had never been in before. This area actually had white paint on the walls that were still white and unstained, and better yet, still on the wall; not dried, broken chips on the ground. Even the air in the place felt different; cleaner, lighter somehow. It made Floyd feel less down than he had been just a few minutes ago.

They stop suddenly in front of a metal, double flap door. Hell even the door looked slightly less metal and imposing than they looked over in his personal side of hell. There were no large bolts or welding marks or peculiar, humanoid looking scratches in the surface. This door actually looked new. The whole corridor looked new. What the hell was going on?

“What the fuck is going on?”

Wilcox doesn’t answer; he only gives Floyd a lopsided smirk that Floyd really wanted to punch off his person, regardless of whether or not he liked the man.

“After you,” he motions towards the door as he takes a casual step back.

All of a sudden Floyd is nervous again, in a way he hadn’t felt in a long while. What if this was some sort of test, or a trap? Was there a bomb inside that room that was set to go off when he opened the door?

Wilcox was far too relaxed and casual about it, arms crossed over his chest and an easy going look on his face. Even the two guards flanking him were currently engaged in small talk between themselves which was not the casualness Floyd expected to see from guards at Belle Reve. He was used to getting punched and kicked and tased and stabbed even, but getting this kind of nonchalance from people who should be terrified of him, who should hate him, it was thoroughly unnerving.

But he throws open the door regardless—

And gets bowled over by a figure moving too fast to see.

“Dadshot! I missed you _so_ much! How have you been, darlin’? Well? I’ve been well. We’ve all been well, we’ve been better, but being well isn’t exactly a step down.”

“Harley?”

But Harley’s speaking a mile a minute and pays absolutely no attention to the person she’s tossing the grenade of words at.

Floyd manages to push himself into a sitting position with Harley still latching onto him like a baby monkey and looks out at the room he just entered.

It looks suspiciously like a cafeteria, but again, it’s large and clean and new—

And KC is seated at the far end chowing down on what seemed to be remnants of whole roast cow. Not roast beef. Like an actual cow, head, hoofs and all.

Diablo is seated across from him with a posh looking cup of tea that he’s tipping in Floyd’s direction.

On the next table there’s a mountain of fast food paper bags and food wrappers strewn about and the sound of an animal hungrily chomping down on the carcass of prey it just killed. On the side there’s also 2 half empty six-packs of beer that immediately gave the person’s identity away.

“You just gonna lie there all day, Lawton?”

Floyd knows he’s looking a bit like an idiot sitting there with his legs stretched out in front of him on the floor, but his brain feels too incoherent and confused to send the necessary signals to his body in order to make it move up off said floor.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Breakfast, dumb ass. Even criminals know what that means, right? Now get the fuck up and get the fuck over there. I have better things to do than wait around for you sitting there like the blackest beached whale in the entire ocean.”

Floyd feels his body move of its own accord as he gets up into a standing position. Harley finally gets the hint and lets go though she’s still talking shit to him that he has absolutely no clue what about. The moment he’s up and out of the way the doors immediately slam shut and he hears the sound of the locks being bolted from the outside.

“ _Floydkins_? Only two days away from us and you’ve already reverted back to your Neanderthal ways?”

“Shut up, Quinn.”

“Now there’s the grumpy old assassin we all know and love.”

Floyd doesn’t hit girls, but sometimes he wonders if Harley actually qualifies as one, especially after the shit she just spouted.

He’s not _that_ old.

“Floyd,” Diablo greets him cheerily.

Diablo, greets and cheery are not three words Floyd ever thought he’d ever use in a sentence together, but there he was before him, looking like he finally got rid of the burden of the world he was carrying around on his back.

Floyd doesn’t dislike it. It’s just strange.

And KC just swallowed an entire cow hoof. _Whole_.

“Boom, did you eat yourself to death already?” KC bellows out when Floyd approaches.

Out of the mountain of trash, Floyd hears a mumble and a quake before the vibrations shake all the Happy Jack’s paper wrappers and paper bags onto the floor, leaving a very giddy, very well-fed Australian in its place lying flat on his back on the table.

“Keep eating man, I like my meals well fed,” he adds with a guffaw.

“Piss on ya’, KC. I’m too full to even fucking care right now, mate.”

“Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?” Floyd says finally. Why the hell do none of these people seem as concerned as he is about this whole bizarre turn of events? Where are they? Why are they there?

“We’ve got good food, amazing coffee and a gorgeous fucking place all to ourselves that doesn’t smell like the inside of Boomerangs’ disgusting coat. Who fucking cares?”

Harley makes a good point, but Floyd isn’t as easily mollified as she is. “I fucking care, that’s who. I did not just spend 3 fucking days locked up by myself with no news of the outside, no news of you guys and now we’re all here in this nice decent cafeteria with actual edible food, it’s like they’re fattening us up before leading us out to slaughter.”

“For the record, man, I have no problem with that as of this moment.”

“Shut up, Boom. No one fucking asked you.”

Frankly, Floyd is fucking pissed at their nonchalance. But he’s abruptly cut off when there’s a clicking sound of a door being unlocked from the opposite end of the room and all of them finally decide to take this fucking seriously.

Floyd follows the slowly opening door with his eyes; fingers subconsciously reaching out for the nearest object he could use for protection. That object happened to be a recently chewed cow thigh bone which was both gross, but currently needed.

The door opens almost comically slow like some kind of horror movie parody, complete with dramatic squeaking as it slows to a halt and a figure suddenly jumps out of the darkness.

“Surprise!”

“Jesus Christ,” Floyd rolls his eyes exasperatedly and immediately relinquishes his grip on the disgustingly greasy and moist piece of bone.

“No guys, it’s me, GQ. It’s only been 2 days; don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me already.”

“You’re about _to_ become a distant memory, GQ. What the fuck were you thinking?”

GQ shrugs his shoulders casually, making it clear that in true GQ fashion, he really wasn’t thinking anything.

Floyd actually really missed the dumbass. He was like the annoying little brother Floyd never had, never needed, never would have wanted but got stuck with anyway. Plus he isn’t the worst company, so there’s that.

“Bet you didn’t see this coming, did ya’?” He says, a little too enthusiastically for Floyd’s ever waning patience, motioning to the room. “We’ve scheduled it so that you guys will get to have breakfast, lunch or dinner here together once a day. Which meal time on which day is completely up to you guys. That’s why none of us were around the last couple of days. It’s been complicated shit, but you know, you’ve got me on the team and handling all this complicated political stuff—”

“So you mean Waller did all this?”

GQ deflates a little. “Well—yeah. Waller gave the okay but Flag was the one hounding her into submission. If you can imagine the word submission and Waller in the same sentence. And you can imagine that Flag’s still not 100 percent and looks only slightly better than someone who’s actually dead, so that was doubly astounding seeing Waller actually cave.”

“How is our favourite Colonel doing?” Diablo asks, beating Floyd to the proverbial punch.

“Oh you know, being very _Flag_ with the doctors and all the medical personnel. And by that I mean pissing the shit out of everyone by acting like the world’s worst, most disgruntled old man. Which by the way, I’m not sure he isn’t at heart.”

“Sounds like Flag,” Diablo lets out a small chuckle. “But seriously, how is he?”

GQ sobers up almost immediately. The grin fades from his face and the difference is almost astounding.

“He isn’t paralysed if that’s what you’re asking, but only because he’s literally the luckiest son of a bitch this side of the solar system. The bullets didn’t hit his heart because of Lawton’s cross and it barely missed his spine, but there is damage to the nerves and the doctors say that he probably won’t be able to do most of the things he used to, or at least, not without difficulty.”

The statement causes the entire room to sober up the same way GQ did not two minutes ago.

“What does that mean for the squad though? If Flag can’t go out on missions anymore?”

GQ looks almost hesitant to answer. This is the serious version of GQ they’ve only seen a handful of times and his appearance here and now is unnerving.

“Just tell it to us straight, GQ. No bullshit,” Floyd knows that whatever GQ has to say will not be what any of them want to hear. But like a band aid, better rip it off quickly and get the pain over with.

“The truth is…uh, I don’t really know the workings of the higher ups and this is just what I’ve heard people saying. There’s talk that the military wants to give Flag an honourable discharge for his services in the military in the past and for his role as leader of this squad. But Waller hasn’t confirmed or denied anything yet so…I don’t know. We’ll just have to see, I guess.”

Silence swallows the room.

Floyd doesn’t really know what to say. Of all the things he expected, _that_ was absolutely the last thing. He knew that if the bosses deemed Flag unfit to lead the squad on ground missions that he wouldn’t be with them, actively, but he’s sure that he’d at least still be there working with the squad from behind the scenes or something.

The military wanting to discharge him, honourably or otherwise wouldn’t mean that he’d have nothing to do with the project or the squad anymore, right?

The squad without Flag, without GQ or Katana or any single one of them—well…it just wasn’t the complete squad then.

The day that ended up being pretty good turned out to be worse than what Floyd had expected.

GQ stayed a couple more hours after that, just talking. But the mood in the whole room was sombre. Even Harley didn’t make any inappropriate jokes or give them any new pastry-related nicknames. In fact, she looked the most sombre of them all.

The next few days pass in a blur. The daily meals with the squad at the cafeteria did wonders for morale.

Wilcox actually turned out to be a pretty swell guy. Somewhere along the way, he even stopped bringing backup when he came to escort Floyd to the cafeteria. The walk usually took about 10 minutes that they actually spent talking. Floyd discovered that Wilcox (though he declined to provide a first name. “Think of me like Drake,” he said) is married with two kids. Floyd actually talks to him about Zoe and Wilcox to his credit actually seems genuinely sympathetic by his situation. Floyd guesses that it’s just a universal thing that fathers would understand.

The first week rolls around in the blink of an eye. Katana stopped by a few days after GQ came. She didn’t say anything. She just sat morosely in the corner sharpening her sword but her mere presence provided a familiar sense of comfort. At one point Diablo actually walked over with two plates of food, one for him and one for her and silently took seat on the empty spot beside her. Neither of them said anything or even made eye contact, but that was the most relaxed Floyd had ever seen either of them.

June stopped by the following week and for some reason after being acquainted with them for just those couple of days in the hospital—excluding the time they as a collective team banished the evil ancient spirit that was embodying her soul—somehow she’d decided to take up the mantle of Squad Mom. Asking everyone if they’d eaten, making sure KC got an extra serving of cake and everything else. Brewing both Harley and Diablo coffee, which they later declared to be the best cup of coffee they’d ever had. June made the coffee the old fashioned way, not with one of those fancy espresso machines Harley had.

Floyd wasn’t sure whether Boomerang liked her, or _liked her_ liked her, but since she was officially Flag’s old lady, Floyd knew even Boomerang was aware that meant that she was irrevocably off limits. Floyd wasn’t sure whether Harley liked her, or _liked her_ liked her, either. But that was an entirely different ballgame, one he absolutely did not want to get involved with. He loved Flag like a brother and he’d die for the guy, but he would not get between _that_ for any amount of money or familial bond.

June tells her about Zoe which simultaneously cheers him up and weighs him down. How well she’s doing in school _and ‘no, she doesn’t have a boyfriend’_ and that she stays over at June’s at least a few times a week. Whenever Darnell or her mom are away for extended periods of time, June will come and stay over or Zoe will come and stay over at June’s, since June hadn’t officially moved back into Flag’s apartment yet since he wasn’t there.

Flag was out of the ICU and had been moved into a regular room. He still needed a few days of rest before the doctor would consider himself fit to start physical therapy; a fact that according to June really brought him down and Floyd was sympathetic. He knew how tough Flag was; they’d all seen proof of that with their own two eyes, and to end up in this vulnerable position with still such a long road ahead after all the fighting he’d been doing, it must be devastating. Floyd knows the kind of person Flag is, how going out into a raging battlefield with bullets whizzing past his ear and the heat of bombs going off in his face must seem like a cake walk compared to having to deal with stupid things such as emotions and feelings.

Floyd was the same way. Not to the crazy jarhead extent of Flag, but he understood enough.

At the very least though, he was glad that June, Zoe, GQ and Katana were all there for him. Hell, even Waller, cause if there was anyone knew how to kick an ass into gear, it was Amanda Waller.

It wasn’t until the third week of what they’d describe as a much appreciated relaxation yet repetitive amount of complacency that Floyd feels like things were truly starting to change. He’d even go as far as to describe where he was at this point in his life as _contented_ , maybe even happy.

Wilcox calls for him early after lunch that day. Usually they have a couple of hours for lunch and by 4.30 P.M. they’d be called by the head guards of their respective sections to escort them back to their cells. Harley actually has a female guard in charge of her wing of Belle Reve this time and someone she never fails to make suggestive remarks towards and flirts incessantly with as they leave.

Floyd always thought he knew Harley, or at least knew enough of her, but at one point during the last couple of weeks he realized that he didn’t really know her at all.

It’s only 3 P.M. and Wilcox is already hollering at him from the door and Floyd controls the urge to use a small carton of uneaten yoghurt as a projectile aimed straight at the man’s fat black head.

“Let’s go, Lawton. We got a hot date for you today.”

“I knew you were lonely without me, Wilcox, you could have just told me outright instead of planning this extravagant proposal,” he says with an eye roll as he irritably gets to his feet.

“Tone down the egotism, Lawton. Even in a room with former Latino gangbangers, basket cases, humanoid reptiles and Australians, you’re absolutely the last person I’d pick for my dodgeball team in a zombie apocalypse.”

Everyone seemed way too amused by Wilcox’s words than Floyd really thought was necessary, they were after all supposed to be _his_ squad.

“See you guys tomorrow,” he says, but no one bids him goodbye. They were all still too busy laughing and truth be told, Floyd felt a little betrayed by their reaction.

“You poisoned them, didn’t you? To get them on your side.” He confronts Wilcox as they’re walking down the now familiar path, the sound of their footsteps echoing against the corridor walls.

“Just with my charm and wit.”

Floyd takes back what he said in the past. He hates this fucking guy and his stupid smug smirk.

They take a different bend than the one that leads back to Floyd’s cell today.

“You taking me out back to kill me, man? Now that you’ve won over the loyalty of my squad.”

Wilcox actually seems genuinely amused by the whole exchange. The asshole. “I wasn’t. But that’s actually not a bad plan. One less asshole I need to deal with on a day to day basis. It isn’t enough that I have this annoying as shit whack job former billionaire on the upper level crying about Batman every night, I’ve got to get down in this hell hole and deal with you too.”

Floyd is curious about this whack job former billionaire with a Batman-phobia, but not enough to actually inquire.

“My heart weeps for you, man.”

Wilcox responds to Floyd’s last quip with a slight upturn of the lips before he motions for Floyd to stop.

 _This is it_ , Floyd think. He’s about to get murdered in cold blood and his squad probably wouldn’t even notice. They already got their replacement black guy to fill the minority quota and he’s just as witty as Floyd and a big enough asshole but obviously nowhere near as good looking. He and Flag would probably get along great, if they don’t already.

“Why’re you looking like someone’s about to murder your three legged puppy, Lawton?”

That shakes Floyd immediately out of his reverie. “What monster would try and kill an innocent three legged puppy?” he responds disgustedly and slightly taken aback.

“It’s a figure of speech, man,” Wilcox says, looking at Floyd like he was talking to a petulant two-year old. “Now if you’re done doing an impeccable impersonation of an angst ridden teen, I have placed to be and people to see. It does not say ‘professional babysitter’ on my job description.”

Wilcox just punched a code into the keypad beside the large imposing door in front of Floyd and both of them step back and watch silently as the metal door slides to an open.

They seem to be in the more high tech section of Belle Reve, a place Floyd didn’t even know existed. Hell, he didn’t even know they had a cafeteria, much less one that actually looks like a cafeteria where people actually eat in and not an underground butcher shop in some uncivilized third world country. Although on KC’s section of the room, people might actually make that assumption.

They’ve spent meals together there every day for the past three weeks, and while they spend most of it just chilling, sometimes without even having to say a word to each other. Once in a while Harley or Boom starts telling one absurd story or another, sometimes to them, most of the time at them. Diablo has unsurprisingly the lowest word count of the squad if they don’t count in Katana. But then again, Floyd’s pretty sure the amount of times they’ve heard Katana speak since the day they met her he’d be able to count on the fingers on one hand. KC seems to be taking advantage of being able to order any kind of food he wants, and by any kind Floyd means absolutely _every_ kind. He’s pretty sure he heard someone actually say ‘alligator nuggets’ which is some messed up boondocks, furthest most backwards shithole of the Louisiana bayou he’s ever heard of. But doubly creepy considering KC might be eating a distant cousin or a long lost niece or something.

“I’m a fucking crocodile, asshole. It even fucking says so in the title sequence,” KC says when Floyd for some reason brings it up.

But during those three weeks, they’ve all sort of gravitated towards their own section of the cafeteria. KC’s original spot ended up being KC’s permanent spot since it already smelled of roasted animal carcass and no one even put up a fight for it even thought it was closest to the doors that lead to the kitchens, or whatever room was there that the food came out from.

Diablo took the section closest to the entrance door, for reasons Floyd’s confident he can guess.

Harley has her coffeemaker, a giant mirror and a couple of makeup shit she somehow conned one of the guards into getting her all arranged nicely on the table pushed up against the door. No one says anything during the times she chooses to do some suggestive yoga poses in her section after eating. Harley’s an attractive lady but Floyd can’t even think to look at her in that way or in that direction whenever that happens. It felt too much like a father walking in on his daughter doing something no father should ever walk in on their daughter doing, like making out with a poster…or a boy, but preferably a poster of a boy, or a girl. Floyd doesn’t really care. In fact, he’d prefer a girl since _guys_ should never be trusted.

Boomerang with his ratty coat drinking beer like it was oxygen but never actually getting drunk would always be Boomerang. He has his pink unicorn plushie by his side and a poster of some jacked up mutated kangaroo on his wall.

“After you, Lawton,” Wilcox says, motioning to the open door.

Floyd is by no means afraid. He really isn’t. He has no reason to be considering all he knows about Wilcox. But vigilance is something that’s been ingrained in him; it has to be given his occupation. This line of work affords him many enemies, most of them crazy, all of them dangerous. He can’t afford to let his guard down ever, especially since he has his beloved daughter to think about. He admits he’s grown a bit lax in his own caution since becoming a member the squad. They were called the Suicide Squad for a reason, and Floyd hates to admit it but he’s grown used to having other people there to watch his six. Between Flag and Diablo and KC punching through the enemies front line like the soggiest paper bag in existence, Harley and Boomerang’s comforting brand of crazy and knowing that GQ and Katana are around picking off the stragglers like pathetic flightless birds, Floyd admits that he doesn’t look over his shoulder as much as he did or as much as he still should.

“I’m not trying to kill you, Lawton, Jesus H. Christ and Mary, so would you please stop sulking. I don’t have all day to wait for you to put on your big boy panties.”

Floyd is offended by that comment but tries not to show it.

He squares his shoulder, readjusts his adult size male pants, large enough to hold his giant cojones and steps into the room with one last glare at Wilcox and is met by…

… _nothing_.

The stupid room is fucking empty except for a couple of rows of chairs by the wall and the large wooden table at the far end.

Floyd is pissed. And kind of relieved, but mostly pissed.

He squares his shoulders, pulls up steel plated man pants and marches across the room; hearing only the sound of his own footsteps reverberating against the wall. Only when he comes with a few meters of the wooden desk does he notice the white, old school turn dial phone sitting innocuously in the middle of it.

Floyd has not fucking clue what’s going on and it only does piss him off.

He doesn’t even get to dwell on his annoyance or his anger because all of a sudden the phone starts ringing; one of those shrill tones from a mobster movie set in the 40’s.

He approaches the table and the phone tentatively and with one last look behind him at the now closed door, deep down waiting for someone (like GQ) to leap out of the woodwork and tell him that he’s on Candid Camera.

No one shows up.

Floyd squares his shoulders and answers.

The word that flows through and the voice that reaches his ear feel like a burning stab right through the gut.

_‘Daddy?’_

Floyd cries.

Floyd Lawton was a killer. He’s still a killer. He kills people for a living if not for the reason to continue to stay alive. He stays alive for Zoe, his baby, his daughter, his life and his whole universe. He stays alive because he’s the only person Zoe has. Sure there’s her mom and the non-entity that is Darnell, but he’s the only person he trusts to protect Zoe and to care for her and to always put her needs first.

He realizes now that he hadn’t been putting her first, if he had he would have stopped killing a long time ago. The blame for his current predicament falls solely on his shoulders.

They talk and talk and talk and talk, for an hour, for hours. Floyd just listens to Zoe talk about everything, about June and Flag, about her mom, even about Darnell and it doesn’t even evoke a murderous feeling deep inside his soul. Zoe tells him about school and her teachers and how good she’s gotten in math even though her teacher would still prefer if she stopped using bullet trajectory and assassination blue prints as an example. Zoe tells him about a boy in her class that she has a crush on, and even that doesn’t incite Floyd to go on a killing spree, he’s just so happy and so glad to be able to hear her voice. Everything else is just appetizer.

He’s happy to hear Zoe talk about June; it’s evident how much Zoe likes her. Flag still hasn’t been discharged from the hospital despite his vehement argument about how he doesn’t need to be there any longer. June takes Zoe to see him a few times a week and she says he’s doing much better, he’s still having problems because of the nerve damage in his back but Flag being Flag thinks he can work his way through this problem the way he doesn’t everything else, by grunting through it and refusing to accept anything less as an outcome. Floyd can only laugh at that. His laughing makes Zoe laugh and Floyd doesn’t think he’s ever heard a sweeter sound.

He’s sitting there listening to Zoe talk, looking around at the empty room and he can only ask whatever higher being’s out there if this is actually real. It doesn’t feel it. But like with the cafeteria and the change in personnel that actually treat them all like human beings, Floyd feels like he has fallen into that crevice of complacency and he’s pretty fucking happy to stay there. He knows, like a feeling deep inside his gut that Flag definitely has something to do with everything. Like he was some sort of Jarhead Secret Santa for Floyd and the squad, except that he isn’t expecting a present in return. But Floyd supposes that the knowledge that they all had his back in return, that they proved it on more than one occasion over the course of the last couple of month was gift enough for Flag.

He’s grateful.

If someone had said to him, or KC and Diablo and Harley and Boom, so many months ago that there would come a day where they’d find themselves in a squad with four other criminals, a couple do-gooder military types and some freaky Japanese lady—well, that person would probably have woken up dead. If that same person would have said that they’d end up in that situation with this unlikely group of people and actually _like_ it? That person would definitely have woken up dead. If that same dumbass person would have said that there would come a point where Floyd or KC or Diablo or Harley and maybe Boom if he were in generous mood, would willingly die for each and every one of these people? Then that person would have _wished_ they were dead.

“Lawton?”

It’s Wilcox.

Floyd knew that this wasn’t going to last forever, but still the end came far too soon.

“I have to go, baby,” he says reluctantly into the receiver, feeling his own heart shatter with those five simple words.

“Oh, okay, daddy,” Zoe sounds disappointed but not as disappointed as Floyd expected her to be. Maybe Wilcox got to her too the same way he got to the squad.

“I miss you, Zo-bear and I love you. I want you to always remember that okay?”

“I love you too, daddy and—ooh, June’s here. We’re going to see Uncle Rick again today.”

“Say hi to him for me,” Floyd says, feeling a pang of sadness hit him right in the chest. Flag and June are both out there, free and able to see Zoe any time they want, while he’s stuck there caged like an animal and probably will never get to see her when he wants to again. He feels both sad and jealous and angry; angry at himself for every choice he ever made, everything he’s ever done that landed him in that position. But also feels grateful for Flag and June being there for Zoe when he couldn’t.

“Okay, daddy. Take care okay, and I’ll talk to you in a few days. Love you!” and with that Zoe hangs up, before Floyd’s mind could even really register the second part of the sentence. The dial tone and lingering silence from the other end of the line only leaves him perplexed.

“Lawton. Making enemies with innocent phone receivers now are we? Maybe you do need a hobby.”

The entire walk back to the cell block is in silence after that phone call, but especially after that last comment. Floyd can feel Wilcox’s questioning eyes on him on more than one occasion but he doesn’t feel in the mood to entertain him with an explanation. He’s desperately missing his baby who seemed far too eager to hang up the phone, not to mention the thing she said about talking to him in a few days. Was that just a figure of speech? He’s pretty sure the phone call would be a one-time thing to give him closure of some sort. He’s resigned himself to that fact. Maybe he’d be able to go see Zoe after they’re out on a mission or something. Or maybe he’ll get to talk to her again if Flag ever stopped by.

If he’s even able to anyway.

Floyd remembers how grave his injuries were and the tough times in the hospital not knowing if he was even going to make it through the night. They thought he was at least out of the woods by the time they left for Belle Reve, but from what Zoe and GQ said it seemed like Flag was dealing with a more permanent bunch of problems because of the shooting.

“Hey, you still with me, Lawton?”

The nudge on his shoulder indicates that that may not have been the first time Wilcox’s asked that question within the last 5 minutes or so as they come to a stop in front of his cell.

Floyd likes the man, he really does. He’d even go as far as to say that he respects him, and that’s much bigger a deal. The amount of people he’s genuinely respected in his life he could count on the fingers of one hand. But now because of Wilcox, hell even because of Banks and Briggs, he might even have to start utilizing his second hand to count.

“Yeah. Just missed my baby something terrible,” Floyd says. This time without a witty comeback or even a hint of irony in his voice and he appreciates Wilcox’s just accepting it without comment.

He unlocks the large metal door without word and when Floyd steps into his familiar 10 by 10 cubicle of desolation and despair, Wilcox surprises him by stepping in after him; grabbing a couple of cardboard boxes he hadn’t noticed sitting beside the door and shoving them into Floyd’s arms.

“You have 15 minutes to get your shit packed. I’d say use it wisely and keep the daydreaming to a bare minimum this time if you could. I’m not your personal chauffeur to keep dragging your ass back down to earth and across the compound.”

“What?” For the umpteenth time that day, Floyd is left completely flabbergasted.

“Your shit—” he makes circular motions towards Floyd’s scarce personal belongings scattered around room—“In box.” He points towards the box in Floyd’s arms like he was talking to the world’s dumbest 48 year old toddler.

For the second time in approximately 15 minutes, Floyd _feels_ like the world’s dumbest 48 year old toddler.

“You need me to draw you a diagram?”

“Fuck you, Wilcox.”

“That’s the spirit,” Wilcox says a little too enthusiastically. “Fifteen minutes,” he repeats, this time while making a sign for one and five with his fingers.

Floyd takes back what he said about respecting the man. The ass hole was insufferable but he cleans out his stuff nonetheless. There’s not much they could do to him that hasn’t been done to him in that place already. He knows when a beating’s coming and he’s already mentally and physically prepared for it when it does. But all these uncertainties and the shiftiness of Wilcox and the guys there, all these strange orders and comments that just don’t add up. That Floyd can’t deal with. He can deal with shooting a target he can’t directly see, but it’s much harder shooting a target when you don’t even fucking know which one is the real target. Right here at this moment though, Floyd kind of feels like he’s actually the target.

It isn’t a good feeling. All of a sudden he feels kind of sorry for the people he’s killed though the years.

Except—nope, he’s not really. They were all scumbags who deserved whatever they got.

Moment of repentance over and done with, now back to the present.

“Are we there yet?” Floyd asks for the third time, two minutes into the walk from his jail cell. His _previous_ jail cell now he supposes.

“I consider myself a man of many positive attributes, patience being one of them, and you’re testing nearly all of them Lawton, so if you would kindly shut the hell up.”

Floyd reluctantly lapses into silence, allowing the click-clacking sounds of their footsteps to resound against the wall.

Another day another new corridor explored, another new wing uncovered. If Floyd had been gathering information for a layout blueprint of a place for his escape, they were making it far too easy.

Walking past rows and rows of heavy bolted cell doors only adds to Floyd’s confusion and feeling of not knowing what the hell was going on. The screaming emanating from inside the cells and the pounding noise does nothing to help it either. He kind of misses the guys at this moment. Hell even fucking GQ. He would actually pay money to have Katana there to back him up just in case his probably unfounded worry turns out to not be unfounded. If the last couple of weeks have taught Floyd anything, it’s to expect the unexpected.

He and the squad haven’t seen Flag at all during that time. The only thing they know about what’s going on with him is from whatever second-hand news they get from whoever’s visiting. Though just the fact that they actually get people _visiting_ is a luxury none of them ever expected. Becoming this close to each other, to a point where they would perhaps even without hesitance refer to each other as friends, maybe even family, was an unexpected turn of events. Not to mention the fact that they actually have people on the outside not only with clearance to come and go from Belle Reve almost as much as they please, who also take advantage of that ability to actually come and see _them_ , hang out with them, bring them actual things from the outside and generally seem actually pleased to be in their presence. In GQ’s case, it seems like often times he’s almost more reluctant to leave. Floyd has no doubt that given the choice GQ might even decide to move into one of the cells. It doesn’t seem to be a decision out of character for GQ.

June on the other hand is one character that Floyd just can’t get a grasp on. She seems nice enough most of the time and to the naked eye it would seem like she’s truly nothing more than your run-of-the-mill, dewy eyed archaeologist.

A terrible archaeologist, if Floyd has to be honest, considering her abysmal track record, what with releasing some evil ancient being and getting possessed and everything. But Floyd and the rest of the squad (except maybe Boomerang) have noticed on more than one occasion that there’s so much more to her than meets the eye. It’s nothing outright obvious, he doesn’t think anyone else would really notice, just more of a feeling. Not a dangerous feeling, not like the Enchantress, more like remnants of power that keeps of wafting off her unintentionally. Mostly it feels benign if not outright friendly. But then again it’s pretty hard to be intimidated by a person no matter how powerful they might be when they’re talking so excitedly about the discovery of a 3000 year old golden bong while trying to force feed you chicken broth. Floyd’s pretty sure that actually happened even though he seems to be the only one who remembers.

If June did indeed have powers as Floyd suspects, he thinks that she either doesn’t even realize when she’s using those powers or she’s aware and gotten really, really good at pretending otherwise. Knowing how well June knows Waller, Floyd suspects the latter. He wonders what Wallers makes of the situation, since he’s 100 percent sure that Waller knows about June. Waller knows everything.

It’s only then that Floyd realizes that they actually went up a level without him noticing. It feels weird being in an area of Belle Reve that seemed like it housed actual people. Even the air in the place felt different, less stagnant and stale somehow, if that even made sense.

“You may unclench your sphincter now, Lawton. We’re here.”

Floyd and Wilcox come to a stop in front of, surprise, surprise, another heavily bolted metal door. The people who designed Belle Reve really needed to think outside the box once in a while.

He sees a smattering of guards lined up sparingly along the corridor, but other than that he guesses that they’re in a less secure part of Belle Reve than he was previously. At this point he’s almost completely sure that between his recuperation and organizing all this, that’s what Flag is busy doing behind the scenes that’s preventing him from coming to visit. He’d never admit to feeling hurt about it, though he’s slightly less hesitant to admit that he kind of misses the asshole. He’s glad Flag is doing better though and he thinks Zoe mentioned that Flag was getting discharged from the hospital tomorrow. Thoughts of Zoe manage to drag Floyd back down to the pits of despair so he stops.

Wilcox is eyeing him strangely when he looks at the man.

“What?”

The look gives way to a small smirk but the man says nothing.

Floyd really, really doesn’t like him. It’s confirmed.

“Welcome to your new home,” Wilcox says and pushes open the door like the host of some stupid game show unveiling the stupid prize behind door number one.

The prize it turned out, to not be a jail cell but something more of a mass hall. It wasn’t especially large, but huge compared to his 10 by 10 cell, with stairs leading into an upper level and he sees a few cell bar door lining the side.

“Dadshot!”

It’s like a painful déjà vu when he feels a figure slamming into him from the side sending him sprawling to the floor on his stomach. He skids about a foot before squeaking to a stop, the figure like a heavy lump sitting way too comfortably on his back.

“A handshake next time, Harley,” he says exasperatedly. “A handshake would be enough.”

“But that’s no fun. I missed you, grandpa.”

Once again Floyd resists the urge to let punches fly. He’s only in his forties for fucks sake.

“We were only together like 2 hours ago, woman.”

“Feels like ages.”

“Hey, Lawton, you two need some privacy, esse?”

It’s much less politically incorrect to punch Diablo than Harley, since they’re both men and they’re both the obligatory minorities. But Floyd keeps his fists to himself and pushes himself back up into a standing position; something much easier in theory if Harley wasn’t currently latched onto his back like the world’s most annoying gangly koala.

“What the hell is going on?” he asks when he finally grunts to his feet.

“I thought you were gonna tell us. We’ve been waiting here for about an hour. No one’s telling us anything.”

Floyd looks past Diablo to KC sitting at the edge of the one of tables in the middle of the hall like some underworld boss waiting for his lackey.

He waves happily when he notices Floyd looking at him.

“Considering his flair for the dramatics, I guess we should just wait for GQ to make some hammy entrance to explain this shit to us.”

Both of them lapse into silence, as if preparing themselves for GQ to leap out of the woodwork the way he’d done during the cafeteria thing.

Alas no GQ.

“Well, this has been fun,” Wilcox says after an awkward silence. “But I’m sure someone will be along shortly to entertain you, since last I checked, that still isn’t my job.”

Floyd and Diablo don’t really notice when Wilcox leaves, the door slamming shut behind him and leaving them all to their confused devices.

“Is it time you stopped hanging off my back, Harley?”

“Why?” she whinges. “You’re warm and squishy and comfy. Have you put on weight, Floyd?”

Floyd can only splutter. He most definitely has _not_ put on weight. He does a thousand sit-ups and a thousand push ups a day without fail and he’s about to point out the beat up old punching bag he just hauled across two-thirds of Belle Reve when a sudden sound of metal slamming into metal interrupts them out of the blue.

KC and Boomerang both leap to their feet. Harley is off his back and in a defensive position before Floyd can even blink and Diablo’s got his heckles up like a startled cat. Everyone is primed and ready to meet (and defeat) whatever surprise the higher ups of Belle Reve have decided to toss in their direction. The sound is coming from one of the cells on the upper level; the cell bars thrown open callously and out from the shadows of the unlit cell comes—

“Fucking hell, GQ,” Boomerang curses, verbalising the general thoughts of everyone in the room as they all continue watching the most unlikely of members of their rag tag bunch; yawning and arms stretched out wide like he’d just taken the deepest sleep of the century.

“Oh hay, guys,” GQ says nonchalantly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand, as if his presence there and the entire situation was nothing out of the ordinary. “Surprise, wheee…” he says with about 2 percent enthusiasm as the world’s saddest exclamation of joy trails off into another loud yawn.

“What the fuck is going on GQ? More importantly have—have you been there the entire time? We’ve been sitting here for more than an hour and no one’s come or gone besides us.”

GQ stops in his tracks as he slowly makes his way towards the stairwell leading to the ground floor. “Fuck, I must have fallen asleep. Well—oops.”

Floyd’s not sure whether that’s supposed to be some sort of apology in GQ speak, but regardless, it was a piss poor one. “Cut the crap and the GQ-ness and just explain what the fuck is going on _this_ time.”

To GQ’s credit he actually cuts the chit chat and gets to the point almost immediately. “I thought that part might be obvious. Don’t make me utilize my collection of Homer Simpson quotes on you. You’ve been moved to new quarters. One that’s much better at quote unquote, _maintaining squad morale_ , or some sort of shit like that. That was the line Flag sold to Waller anyway and I don’t know if the Missus is getting all naïve in her advancing age but for some reason she bought it without too much resistance. She probably just wanted Flag to stop talking at her with those sad puppy dog eyes. I think Flag’s getting real good at this manipulation game…unless that’s Waller’s plan all along; manipulating Flag into manipulating her when she’s the mastermind controlling the whole manipula—”

“GQ shut up.”

“Roger that,” he says, almost as is he himself realized that he was rambling incoherently.

“Fucking Flag,” Floyd says but it isn’t in a malicious way and he can’t stop the stupid grin from peeking out at the thought of their fearless leader who was still having their backs from behind the scenes. All of a sudden Floyd’s imagining the squad without Flag there to lead them and it’s a terrible prospect to even consider. But if the military was going to discharge him than that’s what it spelled for their squad, unless Waller could pull a string or two and somehow keep him on, but would she even do that?

Floyd thinks he should give himself a proverbial pat on the back for managing to make himself feel all depressed again when the already topsy turvy day was actually turning out quite positive. That’s why he never dwelled too much on stupid things like emotions and getting attached, eventually everyone leaves.

“You guys should come and check out your new digs,” GQ says when the silence starts weighing everyone down, almost like the whole squad was having the same disconcerting thoughts about their favourite half-Viking colonel.

Almost reluctantly all of them make their way up the stairs towards the upper level. The stairs is in the middle of the room leading up towards the far end wall of the cell block hall where it diverges into two opposite L shaped corridors lined with 3 cells on each side. GQ is waiting for them at the top of the stairs as they make their way up one by one; Harley skips up the steps with spryness that Floyd can only dream of. Floyd comes up behind her and his knees seem to creak and pop just to spite him. Diablo and Boomerang comes up behind him and KC brings up the rear, shaking and rattling the steps under his giant reptilian feet.

“Welcome, friends,” GQ greets dramatically when they all reach the top step. “Mr. Lawton, Ms. Quinn, if you would head in this direction,” he motions to his right, towards the three cells along the right side of where they were standing. “And the three of you of one name notoriety—”

“I don’t know if they taught math at that white trash school you went to, GQ, but Killer Crocodile is two words.”

“But it might as well just be one word. Isn’t crocodile a killer by definition? Isn’t that like oxymoron or something?”

“The only moron in question here is you,” Harley interrupts suddenly, turning around quickly from where she was about to go skipping off towards her cell. “I think the term you’re looking for is tautology. It means the use of redundant words, not unlike everything you say ever.” And like that Harley drops the mic. Floyd doesn’t know whether to be impressed or to hand GQ some ice for that devastating burn.

“Damn, man,” Diablo says amusedly.

“Geez, Harley. We’re all on the same team here,” GQ says, but he doesn’t look especially hurt or offended by her words.

Harley blows him a kiss from half across the walkway.

“Well, better just get to it. Don’t want to say anything redundant or anything,” GQ says almost dolefully. KC just guffaws and reaches over to ruffle his hair fondly. Diablo also has a look of fondness on his face as he reaches over to circle him arm around GQ’s shoulders and drags him off towards the left side cell block.

Floyd reaches his cell first since it’s the very first one in the line. He’s not sure whether to be grateful or offended. Harley’s in next to his and the one at the farthest end is left uninhabited. At first glance it seems like a regular prison cell, single bed with a standard issue crisp mattress. There’s no toilet seat in the middle of the room though which is always a plus, but begs the question _how_ and _where_? Or did they expect them to hold it in till someone decides they’re in desperate enough need to use the joint bathroom downstairs and lets them out?

There’s a nice wooden book shelf on one side of the bed and a small table with a picture frame on the other. A writing desk sits innocently enough against the wall opposite the bed and on closer inspection there’s a book sitting in the middle as if waiting for him. On even closer inspection Floyd sees that the cover is an illustration of a sad bunny and the title is _‘The Night Dad Went to Jail’_.

Floyd’s 200 percent confident that particular gift is courtesy of Rick Flag. He tries not to let how pleased he feels on the inside show outright on his face. He doesn’t think he succeeds. Instead he tears his gaze away from the sight before him and goes over to Harley’s cell. The first sight he sees is her doing a split while hanging upside down on the _stripper pole_ that’s been mounted right in the middle of her fucking room. Floyd could not look away quicker had it been a sight of naked Boomerang doing a split instead. It just wasn’t right.

Instead he goes to check on the other guys; Boomerang’s cell is the first one immediately opposite his own and much like his cell, it seemed like a regular cell with a bed and a desk (rather redundant addition if he had to be honest) only instead of a bookshelf, Boom’s held a fridge instead. Surprise, surprise. The Australian inside was sprawled out on the bed, equally unsurprisingly asleep.

Next to his is KC who has a large screen TV mounted to the wall and a surround sound system and a shelf full off terrible comedies, most of them starring Adam Sandler. Floyd was internally grateful to not be sleeping next to that mess.

“How you like your new place, KC?” he asks KC’s back from where he’s currently admiring his new DVD collection.

“Finally feeling appreciated man. Not gonna lie ‘bout that.”

“Yeah, I get what you mean,” Floyd answers, seeing for the first time ever KC showing his sombre side.

“You should check what Diablo’s got in his cell tho. Flag really pulled out the stops looks like.”

That rouses Floyd’s curiosity as he makes his way to the cell at the farthest end, opposite the empty cell on his side. Immediate first sight he sees is GQ lounging way to casually on Diablo’s bed. Like his own cell, Diablo has a shelf full of books with undoubtedly a much finer choice of reading material. Flag was always biased like that. Diablo is sitting cross-legged on the floor in the corner among what seems to be a bunch of soft toys, a few bowls and what seems to be a grey, fuzzy ball of fur purring comfortably on his lap.

“Diablo gets a cat? Really? Biased much?” Floyd says when he enters.

Diablo is actually smiling and it’s an unnerving sight to behold. Floyd doesn’t dislike it; it just looks so out of place on Mr. Sombre himself. What’s next? _Katana_ smiling? That would just be too bizarre a sight to imagine.

“Don’t be jealous, amigo,” Diablo says way too gleefully. “We always knew who was Flag’s favourite. This is just proof I guess.”

“I think I miss the old gloomy Diablo more, can he come back instead.”

Diablo laughs and Floyd feels happy despite his forced annoyance.

“This is pretty awesome thought right, guys?”

“I have to reluctantly agree with you, GQ,” Diablo says. “So, you moving into the empty cell there or what?” he adds, motioning towards the vacant cell across from his.

“Unfortunately not,” and GQ looks genuinely upset by that. As if it were such a disappointing thing that he wasn’t moving into a jail cell in the most tightly guarded prison in America with them. GQ must live a much emptier life than Floyd could even imagine. He kind of feels bad for the kid. “I heard that someone might be moving in there, but that information is way above my paygrade.”

As much as that new information tickles Floyd’s curiosity, it’s too low on his priority list to focus on at the moment.

“Oh, by the way, the ceremony for Colonel Flag’s discharge is in a couple of days.”

The statement brings another bout of heavy silence to the room. Floyd doesn’t know how to process that information. Frankly, he’s a little hurt that Flag didn’t at least come to tell them himself, but the rational side of him reasons that Flag might have been too busy between physical therapy and going through with the whole ceremony. He’s confident that Flag would have absolutely been there to tell him if he could. He has faith in that and if being in the squad has done nothing for him, it’s given him back his faith in other people. Flag especially because he’s proven time and time again that he’s always had Floyd and the squad’s back and they’ve all proved that they have his back in return.

“Oh,” is the only thing Diablo can say and Floyd seconds that sentiment.

“The colonel says to apologize for not coming by to visit you guys. He’s been having a tough time with PT and this whole thing with the ceremony. He’d totally be here if he could though. Just wanted you guys to know that.”

“What’s going to happen with the squad? Who’s going to be in charge?” it seems like Diablo spontaneously turned into the voice of reason in the squad and at this point Floyd can only be grateful for that.

“I don’t know. They haven’t exactly filled me in on the finer detail of the plan. They might bring in some super cool, big shot military guy to lead the squad on the ground. But I have no idea who that’s going to be either.”

“What about Flag? What’s he going to do after all this? I don’t exactly see him and June retiring to the Poconos.” At least Floyd certainly hopes not, unless they take Zoe with them. But Floyd is confident that even if Flag wasn’t involved with squad business anymore, he would still continue looking after Zoe. He’s confident that both Flag and June care about Zoe as much as he does.

Eventually Floyd and Diablo feel like they’ve had time to process the information enough and call the rest of the squad back down to the seating hall downstairs. The silence that falls once they finish filling the rest of the team in is familiar. KC and Boomerang are both uncharacteristically silent and Harley looks genuinely upset. She doesn’t say anything in return and after a few introspective moments to herself, she walks back up the stairs, closing the door behind her as she disappears into her cell.

Everyone watches her leave without word. Honestly, no one knows what to say to comfort her anyway.

“In a couple of days you said?” Diablo asks, if only to break the awkward silence.

“Yeah,” GQ replies equally sombrely.

Floyd tries to search his face for any sign that any of this is some sort of stupid joke, but his face his hard and grave. GQ couldn’t be that good a pretender if he tried.

“That sucks,” KC says and the general consensus is agreement.

The next couple of days pass by in an almost repetitive, monotone routine: get up in the morning, walk out the _unlocked_ door of their cell (a fact that surprised Floyd even though he was still in faux-mourning), eat breakfast and get some rec time. Wilcox comes by with a couple of guards to escort them to and from the field. Wilcox is still an asshole, but Floyd is thankful for that. It takes his mind off everything that’s happening, or rather everything that isn’t happening and the date that’s rapidly approaching.

The day of Flag’s retirement from the military and the squad.

He feels he has the right to be as disgruntled as Wilcox says he is.

He wakes up one morning and all of sudden it’s the day of Flag’s discharge ceremony and the day could not start any crappier. 

“Rise and shine, squad.”

Floyd stands corrected.

“Isn’t it a little early for you to start your shift guarding the bridge, Wilcox,” Floyd says from over a spoonful of scrambled eggs.

“Oh come on, Lawton. You gonna make me say _that_ line?”

“What’s happening?” Diablo asks as he takes a seat across from Floyd at the table.

Wilcox just smirks and steps aside. About half a dozen military men come clattering in, taking up position at the ready along the wall beside the door.

Floyd senses his aura before he even steps through the front door. It smells like rule-abiding, sphincter clenching responsibility.

“Commander [Jörmungandr](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J%C3%B6rmungandr)!” Floyd states happily when the stern faced man walks through the door.

“It’s Commander Jeffries, pee-on.”

By this time the commotion down in the mess hall has attracted the rest of the squad, who are watching the entire scene unfold from above the second floor rail.

“You guys have 5 minutes to get your gear and get ready.”

“What’s going on?” Floyd stupidly asks.

“4 minutes and 55 seconds, people. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Floyd and the rest wisely keep their questions and comments to themselves. There’s time for all that after. Floyd feels at home once he slips into his red suit and he’s sure everyone feels the same. It’s been too long since they’ve put on anything other than the terrible orange prison jumpsuit. In the four minutes or so they took to get ready—in Boom, Diablo and KC’s case though the only thing they had to do was change trousers and put on a jacket, since Diablo was always wearing that same fucking white wife beater even in prison. Boomerang brings out his trusty yet ratty coat from where he undoubtedly kept it fermented under a dirty mattress because Floyd can smell him coming before he even walks out of his cell. Harley on the other hand managed to change outfits, do her hair in two neat pigtail braids cascading down the front of her chest, a checked red and black pair of leather pants with a matching top that showed off her midriff. In those four or so minutes she’d even managed to do her make up which Floyd found absolutely mind blowing. Talk about multi-tasking.

“You look nice, Harley,” Diablo says.

Harley beams at the compliment. “Thank you, _miguelito_.”

Diablo laughs at that. “Miguelito, really?”

“You know, crispy and toasty on the outside, soft on the inside.”

“I guess I can live with that.”

They follow Commander Jeffries and his factory-setting team of uptight G.I. Joes out the cell block and down the all too familiar corridor of Belle Reve; four of the military guys on either side of them or two flanking them from behind. Wilcox and his team bringing up the rear.

They leave Wilcox and the Belle Reve guards behind. Floyd keeps his eyes on the man as the armed vehicle they get into pull out of the compound and into the deserted road headed away from the prison. The ride out is in silence; no one asks the questions they have in their heads. Commander Jeffries sitting across from Floyd doesn’t make eye contact through the whole ride.

Floyd doesn’t really know what’s about to happen. Were they actually invited to Flag’s retirement ceremony? If they were was it out of courtesy or just to rub the shit in deeper. It wouldn’t bode well for the squad regardless.

Floyd has a terrible sense of déjà vu all of a sudden of an almost similar car ride taken barely even a month ago; Flag and GQ nowhere to be seen and this stoic new, unfamiliar commander in their place.

“Just answer me this, Commander; Flag didn’t get shot again did he?”

Commander Jeffries levels him with a stern look, but he answers with a simple ‘no’ which at least eliminates that particular worry from Floyds mind.

They pull into the familiar parking compound and the squad files out of the vehicle into the warmth of the outdoor sunlight. Floyd never thought he’d miss being outside this much.

Katana meets them the moment they step into the building and silently accompanies them the whole way up to the tenth floor where Waller’s office and the command center are situated. The same place they go for mission briefings and all that political shit; the same place they first received news of Flag’s attack in what seemed to be ages ago.

The whole squad is uncharacteristically silent.

If Floyd had to be honest, if they were indeed holding the retirement ceremony there they could have at least chipped in for some balloons or a few streamers or something. This was drab even by military standard.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Floyd tries his luck asking Katana, but the stoic lady just shrugs her shoulder in negative. “Don’t know why I expected any different,” Floyd whispers under his breath to himself. GQ’s still nowhere in sight and at this point Floyd’s constantly preparing himself for the man to suddenly jump out from behind a closed door unannounced.

GQ is actually inside the commander center when they enter; standing stoically in the middle of the aisle and looking so uncharacteristically un-GQ like that Floyd is taken aback for a solid second.

“I hate to repeat myself so often but what in the blue hell is going on, GQ?”

GQ clears his throat; an unnerving and uncharacteristic frown on his face and his arms clasped firmly behind his back. Floyd has never seen GQ look so stern and professional in his life and he misses the chatty, fallen puppy-dog eyed GQ they’d all come to know and love.

“That’s _Captain_ GQ Edwards to you, soldier,” he says, dropping his voice an octave but not dropping the façade whatsoever; “Commanding officer of the New Suicide Squad. These hands raised you from perdition and it can throw you back in. So y’all better start showing me some damn respect.”

Floyd doesn’t know how to react, but KC lets out an amused snort from beside him and bursts into laughter. Floyd glances over at GQ just in time to see bits of the stoic façade get chipped away little by little until the regular Cheshire cat grin of GQ’s makes its triumphant comeback.

“Man, Floyd!” he says between bouts of laughter, “You should have seen your face. I think you may have crapped your pants a little.”

“You son-of-a-bi—” but Floyd doesn’t finish that statement cause he lets out the breath he’d been subconsciously holding and allows the relieved smile to curl at his lips.

“Captain GQ?” Diablo repeats as he sidles up to GQ who has dropped every last bit of the put on professionalism and stoicism and reverted back to his devil-may-care attitude and stance.

“Yeah, man. Got a nice ring to it don’t you think?”

“Are you gonna elaborate more on that tho, mate? Cause I still don’t know head nor tails of what the fuck is going on here.”

“To be fair, Boom, you don’t know what the fuck is going on at any given time, but I’m going to explain it anyway cause I’m nice like that,” GQ says, stepping over to one of the electronic counters on the side and perching on the edge. It seemed like the command center had a day off cause besides them there was no one else actually around. “Here’s the explanation, so y’all better listen closely,” he draws out the pause for drama and seriously testing Floyd’s very slim patience level. “I got promoted.”

The confused silence in the room is palpable as Floyd looks at Diablo who looks at Floyd and KC looks at Harley who’s looking at GQ and Boomerang’s looking for something deep inside his ratty pocket, seemingly not paying any attention to the conversation whatsoever.

“And? We were listening,” Floyd says.

“I got promoted. That’s it. Not everything has to be some big dramatic moment, you know, this isn’t some B-rate superhero movie.”

“And what the hell did you mean Commander of the New Suicide Squad?”

“Umm, I didn’t know you guys were this slow. And you thought I was the dumb one. Exactly what it said on the box. Captain GQ Edwards, commanding officer of the squad from today on.”

“And when the hell did that happen?”

“Umm, it’s been in the works for a couple weeks. Didn’t I tell you guys that.”

“No you did not think to include that bit of information, you asshole.” Floyd is happy by the news contrary to his reaction. It just took him by surprise and he hates fucking surprises.

“Well, whoops,” GQ shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye that makes it obvious to Floyd and everyone in the room that it was no mistake whatsoever.

“What are you scheming, GQ?”

“What— _lil’ ol’ me_?”

“Yes you, no one in this room trusts you a damn bit starting from this moment. Our trust-o-meter has officially been reset.”

“ _But, guys_!” he whines and to his credit he looks genuinely distraught at the prospect of losing the fragile trust they’ve built.

Floyd takes pity on the guy. “Fine, GQ. But you’re threading on thin ice at this point. We hate fucking surprises and let me reminds you that _all_ of us here used to kill people for lesser offences.”

“Your concerns and warnings are duly noted,” he says with a salute. “But—uhh, can we maybe pinky promise on at that the end of the day? Cause, uh…”

“What is it now? And where the fuck is Waller? And Flag for that matter. We’re here for his ceremony at least, right? Don’t tell us you lied about that one too.”

“Well in my defence, I did not actually tell any lies. I only told selected truths, which is not the same as lying.”

“GQ!”

“Okay, okay—geez, guys. Chill. I didn’t lie about Flag getting discharged from the military though,” GQ says and at this point Floyd doesn’t know if he can truly trust the guy anymore. He feels a little bit betrayed to be honest.

“What about Waller?”

“Hmmm, Waller huh. Good question.” He makes a point to look confusedly around the room until KC makes a point to look like he’s about to rush him and beat him to a mushy GQ shaped pulp. “ _Fine_ , guys seriously. You’re no fun. Waller got promoted. After the whole Agent Gumby thing and stopping what the higher ups deemed ‘domestic terrorism against members of our military’ quote unquote,” he does the last bit in some overly exaggerated deep monotone voice.

Floyd reaches up to massage the bridge of his nose. “And you were planning on telling us all this…when?”

“I’m telling you guys now,” even the perpetually unruffled GQ seemed slightly annoyed at this point. “It’s a surprise, guys.”

“When did we ever give you the impression that any of us in any way liked surprises, GQ?”

“Oh,” GQ says, looking like the thought genuinely had never occurred to him before.

“Speak for yourself, Floyd. I love surprises,” Harley says, interjecting into the conversation and sidling up seductively beside GQ. “Also I take back what I said. You’re weaselling your way out of redundancy one little white lie at a time, GQ. I approve,” she adds, reaching over to run her fingers through his hair playfully.

“Thanks, Harley,” GQ replies, looking more than a little pleased at the odd compliment. But this was Harley, so it wasn’t really anything out of the ordinary.”

Floyd can just exhale exasperatedly. KC and Boomerang have taken seat in a few of the empty chairs on the side and Diablo is perched at the edge of the table in a mirror position of GQ’s pose. It’s eerily similar to the situation they were in the last time they were in that room, missing only Waller herself.

“Anything else we might need to know? Any more _surprises_?”

GQ makes a face indicating that there indeed was more surprises instore.

“This was all Waller’s plan, since she’s been promoted; you’re also getting a new handler. Obviously your new squad leader is yours truly.”

Floyd’s not sure whether he likes where this seemed to be going. Considering GQ’s recently discovered aversion to telling the whole truth, he’s not sure what to really expect at this point.

“Not sure if I like the sound of this, mate,” Boomerang says and Floyd is inclined to agree.

“Need I remind you that you’re playing with fire right now, GQ, and I don’t mean Diablo. Cut the crap and these little half-truths cause I’m about one surprise away from stomping over there and whooping your sad little white boy ass.”

It shows really just how complacent they’ve become that for the second time in the span of a couple of months, a person managed to waltz all the way into the room and all the way up to them before they even realize there was someone standing right there.

“You’re talking a lot of crap for such an old man, Floyd.”

And it’s _that_ voice. For a second Floyd doesn’t know if he’s imagining it or if he was actually hearing wrong or projecting his deepest desires into reality where everyone can see and mock him for it. It feels like he hasn’t heard that voice in fucking ages, and he didn’t even notice the existence of that ache in his chest until that very moment, hearing that painfully familiar voice making a painfully familiar jab and all of a sudden the memories of the last couple of months come rushing back to him like a speeding train.

The reaction is immediate even though everything is playing out like a bad slow motion black and white movie in Floyd’s point of view.

Harley leaps off the table she was perched precariously on and rushes forwards with a cry of ‘Colonel Cupcake’ that is one third excitement, one third happiness and one third relief.

Diablo, KC and Boomerangs almost in-sync cry of ‘Flag’ resounding in his ear like it was part of his own heartbeat.

Floyd still hasn’t turned around to look; he’s almost too scared to. A fear that’s mostly ridiculous and probably unfounded but turning around and looking at Flag and seeing him there in person in front of his eyes, that would ground everything in reality and Floyd’s not sure if he wants to let that happen yet.

One by one Diablo, KC and Boomerang push past him to get to where Flag is probably standing, undoubtedly with that stupid white boy smirk plastered on his stupid white boy face with that stupid white boy crew cut on his stupid white boy head. Speaking of stupid white boys, GQ is still grinning something awful right in his line of sight.

Pleasantries are exchanged. Laughter rings out. Even fucking Boomerang sounds like he started tearing up at some point and still Floyd has yet to turn around. Like a petulant child being asked to do something he doesn’t want to, Floyd’s inclined to whine out, “But I don’t wanna,” at the first person to ask him to. But no one does, at least until he feels the warm breaths of someone who seems to have walked up and is standing right behind him. He’s about to mutter out something about personal space when the voice speaks again.

“Did you age so much in the meantime that it’s already starting to affect your hearing?”

Fucking Flag.

Floyd doesn’t know whether to turn around and punch him in his dumb face or turn around and hug the asshole for making it seem like he abandoned them.

His brain decides on the former but his heart seems to have developed a mind of its own because the moment Floyd turns around and his eyes fall on Flag, actually living breathing Flag, upright and not dressed in a crisp white hospital gown being surrounded by too many tubes and wires to count; at that moment, Floyd loses all impulse control and rational thought. He reaches out, grabs Flag sternly by the shoulder and pulls him into a hug usually only reserved for Zoe and a bolster pillow absolutely _no one_ knows he sleeps with. He doesn’t know how long he latches on. He feels Flag’s own arms circle him around the chest and returns the hug with equal amount of comfort.

For like the first time since the shooting, Floyd feels like he can finally truly breathe and if he holds on to Flag for a few seconds longer than is absolutely necessary, no one says anything.

At this point Floyd knows that Flag is holding on mostly for his benefit so eventually he manages to gets his emotions in check and peels out of the embrace almost hesitantly. The immediate first thing he does is punch Flag unceremoniously in the arm.

“That’s for leaving us in the dark the whole time, asshole.”

“Wait a minute,” Boomerang says suddenly. “Does this mean that you’re our new handler, mate?”

Flag looks confused for a hot minute as he regards Boomerang and turns back to Floyd. “You didn’t know? I sent GQ to the prison to let you guys in on what was happening and why I wasn’t able to come visit.”

All eyes snap immediately in GQ’s direction. GQ to his credit looks absolutely unapologetic, if anything, just mildly annoyed.

“It was a fucking surprise!”

Flag all of a sudden looks like he just aged about 2 years in the span of 2 seconds.

Floyd takes in his appearance for a moment, between feeling half annoyed at GQ (cause no one can be a hundred percent annoyed at GQ ever, the guy just had that quality about him that was just incorrigible but in an endearing way) and feeling like he finally had a partner that related to his perpetual exasperation, it felt like Floyd finally had a moment to process everything.

Flag still looks like Flag; strangely Nordic looking, whiter than a baby seal. Hair still closely cropped but obviously growing out. He’s actually wearing a suit and a decent one at that, which was an unnerving sight on its own. It had a tie and a fucking pocket square and everything and also a silver tipped black cane that Floyd was positive held at least 2 concealed knives. He would have been sorely disappointed if it didn’t.

“You’re looking very suave, Colonel,” Diablo says, saving Floyd from actually having to pay Flag that compliment.

Flag rolls his eyes and groans disgustedly. Now there’s the Flag Floyd knew and loved. “It’s not my choice and you better take a fucking picture to commemorate cause this is the first and last time this will happen. It feels like stupid ass tie has a mind of its own and is trying to off me for good this time,” he says, tugging at the material around his neck with two fingers. “Waller insisted on it and god knows that woman knows how to get her way.”

“But seriously, how you doing, Flag?” KC asks.

Flag exhales loudly, the cane thumping on the ground in an almost comforting rhythm as he walks over to a seat GQ just pulled out for him. Floyd notices the way his face contorted slightly when he went to sit down and he’s sure the whole squad noticed the same thing.

“I’ve been better,” Flag answers, “and I’ve been worse. So I guess I really shouldn’t complain.”

“How’s uh—you back? We heard some…less than encouraging things.”

“Yeah,” he answers, leaning back in the seat and allowing the cane to rest against the chair by his knee, “bullets are fucking nasty sons of bitches. It fucks up a lot of shit before it even gets to the actual damage. Us humans create some really nasty shit. But I guess I can still walk, so it isn’t the worst outcome. It sucks that I can’t go out in the field anymore. It’ll be pretty hard trying to run around dodging bad guys when you can barely walk a straight meter without feeling like it’s actually 3 miles of hot coal,” He trails off to a pause. “But enough of this depressing shit. I’m alive at least and I guess that’s pretty good. Also—uh,” It’s a little unnerving to see Flag look so nervous and at a loss of word, but that’s exactly what seems to be taking place. “I never really got to thank you guys for—uh, what you did back there. At the hospital and taking down the guys who shot me and bringing the double agent to justice. I don’t think I can ever tell you how much I appreciate everything you guys did and staying at the hospital. I—I guess—what I’m trying to say is uh—Thank you.”

The whole squad looks like a fine mix of sheepish pride and joy, except Harley who is outright beaming. “Our pleasure, Cupcake. You know we’re always game for a little murder, and it’s a bonus if they actually deserve it,” Harley says and Floyd thinks that they’ve unlocked a new level in their friendship that he finds that statement genuinely touching.

“You’re welcome, Flag,” KC says in a much saner show of appreciation.

“You know, we’d do it all again, cause we know you’d do it for us,” Diablo says. “ _Todo para la familia_ ,” he adds, shooting a small grin in Floyd’s direction after he said that, “It means _‘everything for the family’._ ”

“Isn’t that the Nickelodeon show?” GQ says, more of an observation than an actual question.

“Cause you’re our family,” Floyd says, feeling like the sappiest motherfucker in all the land immediately after those words left his mouth. He tries the word on for size, feeling it roll unfamiliarly off his tongue before he comes out of his mouth; “Rick.”

Rick Flag actually smiles one of the few genuine smiles anyone has ever seen on his face that wasn’t a grimace, a half grin at someone’s expense or an outright smirk. It relieves a majority of the tense feeling still lingering between them in the room.

“Christ when did you assholes get so sappy?” he asks, but more of as a deflection than anything else.

“We’re only representing the people in charge of us, esse.”

Without missing a beat, Flag looks disapprovingly over at GQ. “Well then GQ should have set a better example.”

“ _Me_? I have literally been team leader for thirteen whole minutes.”

“Well, first rule of leading the team, Captain Edwards, is that the leader is always responsible for the actions of his squad, no matter how long they’ve been under his command.”

Flag has a smug look on his face that’s far too self-indulgent than is truly necessary. He reminds Floyd of Waller so much in this moment which begs the still unanswered question.

“Speaking of command tho, where is Waller exactly? And does this mean that you’ll still be in charge of the squad? Cause I don’t know if my vote would count at this point but I’m totally down for that.”

“I’m about to tell you. Yes and thank you, I appreciate the vote of support,” Flag answers immediately. “Firstly, yes, I’ll be taking over Waller’s position at command center, since I can’t be down in the field anymore and Waller insisted that if I left her alone in charge of this, and I quote, _‘group of uncouth assholes with absolutely no respect for their superior officer’_ , then she was going to, and I quote, _‘hunt me down to the nethermost region of the earths asshole and kill me’_.”

“Colonel Flag’s going to be the Zordon to our Power Rangers,” GQ elaborates further.

“I thought they gave you early retirement from the military, or was that another of GQ’s little white boy lies?” KC asks and Floyd seconds the question.

“That is true, but it was just a formality. Waller insisted on it because she wanted me loyal only to her command, not something I’m really keen on but only cause it keeps me on the squad in some extent. I wouldn’t just abandon you guys without making sure you’re taken care of. I owe you guys more than that,” he thinks hard on the subject before he adds. “There wasn’t a ceremony or anything extravagant like that if you’re wondering. I guess it just would be complete without my whole squad there.”

In that moment Floyd knows that Flag isn’t just taking about the squad before him, but also the squad of good men that didn’t make it to this point. It grounds everything in a much sombre reality for a minute. The first day he met those men out on the airstrip just hours after the creation of the squad, he could never have imagined a future where there would be a point he’d genuinely mourn for their loss. He never had a chance to become acquainted with them the way he had with Flag, GQ and Katana, but just the fact that these were people Flag and GQ still spoke of with reverence and fondness made Floyd believe that he too would have shared that sentiment.

“And Waller?”

That question gives Flag pause and he reaches over to whisper something to GQ, sending the younger man reaching over to fiddle with something on the computer keyboard at his side.

“I think I should let her answer that question herself,” he says, turning the seat slightly to the side and motioning with one outstretched arm to the large monitor at the end of the room. “Behold, the face of god.”

It’s reminiscent of that moment on that airfield when they first learned about the squad and about their mission and the fact that not all of them were going to make it out of that mission alive.

And on the humongous monitor mounted on the wall at the far end of the room, taking up the entire span of the wall, came up the single most terrifying sight any one of them has ever witnessed.

Amanda Waller in a blood red pantsuit, mimicking the bloodthirsty colour of her very soul, addressing them from a far too familiar podium, flanked by two flags of the United States and the emblem of the White House mounted on the wall in the background.

_Holy fuck._

That was the general consensus of everyone in the room, Flag included.

 _‘Squad,’_ she says, her voice booming out the surround sound speakers and drowning all other noises in the room.

Floyd didn’t know whether to laugh or feel absolutely terrified at the sight and the idea that this terrifying woman was now in the single most important house in the entire U.S of A, if not the world, no doubt calling the shots in the background of the entire government. But at that moment, looking at the all too familiar face looking down at them and glancing over at Flag looking at Waller on the screen with barely concealed fondness and awe, Floyd can’t help but think that these two people who have done so much for them are exactly where they both deserve to be.

_‘I will forgo the pleasantries, squad and just get right down to the point. Everything has changed, but nothing has changed. The management may have changed hands, but function of the squad has not. You all are still tasked with eliminating threats to the government and to the safety and livelihood of our citizens. You are the sword that defends us from the enemies that ordinary forces cannot stop and if required, you will give your life to fulfil that duty. That’s the reason you’re here, that’s the reason you’ve been chosen.’_

“In the meantime though,” Flag interjects quickly, showing more balls in that one moment than the entire time Floyd’s seen him in actual missions, “We will do our best to treat you like human beings and make sure that you are compensated in full for your contribution to the safety of our nation.” Flag finishes his statement and glances over at Waller, having an entire private conversation with that look alone giving Floyd the impression that this is a topic they’re argued intensely over in the past.

Waller eventually relents with a pointed glare at Flag that Floyd interpreted as fifty percent annoyance and fifty percent actual respect.

_‘Well, I suppose all that is up to your now, Colonel. Or should I call you Zordon.’_

The unexpectedness of that statement takes everyone by complete surprise so none of them could stop the snort of laughter before it slipped out into the open.

 _‘Well then people, I have our entire fair nation depending on me to protect them from the forces of evil, so I will leave the mission briefing in Colonel Flag’s more than capable hands,’_ before the camera flickers out, Waller has just enough time to spare a look at Flag and a couple of words of warning; _‘Don’t disappoint me.’_

“No, ma’am,” Flag answers to the static noise of the cut out screen.

“So we’re actually going on a mission today, boss?” asks Diablo, always the most level headed one in the group. Floyd thinks that it really should be his job since he is the faux-leader of the squad on an average day.

“In a way,” Flag answers cryptically, making it clear that he inherited more than Waller’s job, also her penchant for answering questions with non-answers. “You’re not just here to listen to GQ talk crap or see me in this monkey suit, there’s actually someone else you’re here to meet; a new member of the squad.”

A tense silence falls over the group. Floyd shares a look with Diablo and the meaning that passes between them is that this will either turn out really good, or catastrophically terrible. Both of them are leaning towards the latter.

The door in the background behind GQ suddenly opens and all of them notice movement in the dark as GQ walks over to greet this new arrival.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Flag starts before his eyes fall on KC and he adds almost automatically, “And gentlecrocodiles.”

“Damn right I’m gentle.”

They see the outline of GQ walking towards their direction and into the light, one arm reaching to the newcomer. Floyd can’t see who or what it is, only the outline of a petite, lithe figure.

“May I introduce you to the new member of your team,” Flag announces as the figure steps gracefully into the light and into their line of sight. Floyd’s immediate first response is: flaming red hair—a bit too much hair than is truly necessary on a human being, he thinks. The woman, as they just discovered, sidles up behind Flag with an almost seductive kind of sashay, her fingers creeping across his chest like a vine as she embraces him affectionately from behind. Flag looks too unruffled by the act for it to be an unexpected occurrence. “Pamela Isley,” he says as he grabs one of the hands that’s getting a bit too intimate with his chest area and guides the person forward, “Also known as, Poison Ivy.”

The lady folds herself into a rather exaggerated bow, one leg crossed behind the other and both arms, including the hand still held by Flag, spread out at her side. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, boys,” she says; her voice coming out almost a purr.

Besides Floyd, Harley is bristling. After all, no one cuddles members of the squad except her.

Floyd doesn’t know whether it’s the murderous aura currently rolling off Harley in waves or the heated glare she she’s shooting like laser beams that attracts the newcomers eyes to Harley, but they fall on her almost immediately with an astonished ‘oh.’

“Boys _and_ _ladies_ ,” Pamela corrects, her eyes never straying from Harley; in fact studying her up and down with a hawk like gaze. She’s staring a bit too intently in Floyd’s opinion, it almost feels like he’s infringing on what should be an intimate moment. “I do like what I see,” she says and for the first time ever, Floyd sees Harley completely at a loss for words.

The rest of the squad on the other hand obviously approve, if the appreciative glint they all had in their eye was anything to go by.

“So, Isley,” Diablo starts, once again taking over as team leader from Floyd who just needed more time process this shit. “What do you do? Or rather what _can_ you do?”

“Well, _ma Cherie_ —”

Besides Floyd, Harley is almost shaking with rage at this point. After all no one gives members of her squad nicknames besides her.

“—Let’s just say that I have an affinity for flora.”

Floyd doesn’t know what exactly that’s supposed to mean, until Pamela raises her hand, palm up, in front of Diablo and a small rose bud rises up out of the very skin of her hand and blossoms into a gorgeous purple rose.

“Holy shit!” KC nearly jumps out of his scales at the sight.

“Fuck, mate. That’s the coolest shit I’ve ever seen!”

Even Katana’s eyes widened from behind the mask and Floyd hears GQ letting out a whistle from somewhere in the background.

Diablo looks more than a little impressed by what he saw.

“What about you, papi?”

Diablo smirks, and raises his hand, palm up, in front of Pamela and a spark of flame ignites right in the middle of his hand; burning red embers of flame taking shape of a fiery orange rose.

Floyd looks at Flag looking at the scene in front of him and the asshole looks far too smug by the exchange happening in front of him.

“Nice,” Pamela says equally as impressed. “I do think we’ll all get along just fine.” She tears her eyes away from Diablo suddenly, taking a couple of steps further into the middle of the assembled group and stops right in front of the still bristling Harley.

Harley opens her mouth to say something when Pamela raises the hand that’s holding the flower and offers it to Harley.

“A beautiful flower for a beautiful lady,” she says and Harley’s mouth snaps shut as she looked confusedly between Pamela and the rose being offered to her.

It’s Katana who nudges her gently with her shoulder, snapping her out of her befuddled thoughts and brings her back down to reality. Harley hesitantly reaches up to take the offered flower from Pamela’s hand with a muttered, ‘thanks’ as all the indignation and rage that was seeping off her being immediately drains away. Pamela moves quickly just as Harley’s just about to the rose out of her offering grasp, grabbing the outstretched hand gently and planting a soft kiss on the back of it, visibly startling the still befuddled Harley.

“A single purple rose means love at first sight,” Pamela adds and for the first time ever, Harley is both blushing and at a complete loss of words.

Floyd thinks that they actually seem to be off to a good start; Harley no longer looks like she wants to kill the new girl on sight. The new girl looks like she has other plans for Harley, if the seductive gaze she keeps shooting at her is any indication. The only downside if the fact that Floyd only just remembered that he’s in the cell _right next_ to Harleys and the one he assumes now belongs to Pamela.

Maybe there’s still time to ask for his _old_ cell back.

He shares a look with Flag sitting directly in front of him as the rest of the squad converge on the new member, throwing around questions and a couple of inappropriate comments. Floyd hears a desperate choking sound that sounds suspiciously like Boomerang and he doesn’t even have to turn around to know that the new girl is more than capable of protecting herself from Boom’s crude advances. He walks over to where Flag is still sitting on the office seat in the middle of the command center aisle.

“So…”

“So,” Flag mimics his statement as he turns around to perch on the closest table beside Flag, watching the scene unfolding before them with an amused eye. “What do you think of the new girl?”

“Seems like another scary ass woman who can more than kick out asses, figuratively _and_ literally.” Flag chuckles and Floyd doesn’t know how much he’s missed hearing that sound. “Better question is what does the new girl think of Harley? Cause I can tell you the answer, it’s nothing appropriate.”

“Yeah, she’s a piece of work, but so is Harley. And they’re both smart, consenting adults. Also the alternative…”

Flag trails off but Floyd completely understands the unsaid comment. He’s sure they’re both thinking of Harley’s less than proper and very unhealthy ex. Instead both of them look over to where Pamela is still openly staring at Harley and Harley in return actually looks shy at the attention, but doesn’t look like she’s about to stab the other woman in the eye with the rose stem. Instead she’s holding onto the rose like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

“June’s spending the day with Zoe, by the way. I tried bringing her here but, with the new member and Waller and everything, I think it’s better for when things aren’t so frantic. Pamela’s still in the testing process. I mean, we’ve been looking at candidates for months and we still have to get to know her on the field and how she’s handle it. She’s more than capable to neutralize threats on her own, but like with you guys the first time. Being in a squad is something she’s going to have to get used to.”

Floyd tries not to let his disappointment show at the mention of Zoe. But he remembers the phone call and decides to ask Flag about it. “So, Zoe called me the other day,” Flag looks like he knows exactly what Floyd is talking about, “and she said something strange, that she’ll talk to me again another time?”

“Yeah,” Flag answers, looking up to meet Floyd eyes. “I got her a cell phone that makes calls only to me, June and GQ, and also to the phone in Belle Reve. But it’s just for a set time once every few days, since it’s still a prison with rules. But I am working on getting a phone for you that can just make calls to Zoe and me. That one’s proving to be a bit of a challenge. Waller’s grown immune to my charms in the last couple of weeks.”

Floyd is touched, and he doesn’t even attempt to speak when Flag finishes because he knows the only sounds he’ll be able to make are gurgled sobbing sounds. He knew that Flag was still working to set things up for them behind the scenes, as demonstrated by the cafeteria and their new digs, but he didn’t know it extended this far. It’s more than material things Flag is handling for them from the outside; it’s also the emotional aspects and taking care of everything near and dear to them. He’s sure that the choice of adding Pamela’s particularly to the squad wasn’t something accidental.

Flag, June, GQ and Katana, all of them are the family none of them ever really had; even more than that. It’s a relationship built and forged in fire and something that can never be truly severed. They see in Floyd and Harley and KC and Diablo and Boomerang what everyone else in the world has given up trying to look for; humanity, importance and love; three things that Floyd never saw of himself until this very moment. Looking out to the squad laughing; GQ and Boomerang are outright ogling Pamela who just made vines creep up her arms and spout out little white buds. KC who is guffawing loudly seemingly at something _Katana_ had said and the usually stoic Katana is actually smiling.

And Harley who’s looking at the scene taking place in front of her and at the woman who can’t seem to tear her eyes away from her; eyes that shine with awe and the unfamiliar glint of admiration. Harley’s used to looking at others with that gaze, but has never had that look or those emotions being directed at her.

Its mind blowing, she thinks.

“You’re breath-taking,” Pamela says to her.

And in background Flag and Floyd both look on, grinning like the proudest and dorkiest parents in all the land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am unable to write anything that doesn't have a happy ending. The *happiest* ending if I have anything to say about it and I hope it lived to up everyone’s expectations. For the record, I knew I wanted to end the story by adding Poison Ivy, so finally getting to write that scene makes me very happy and very pleased.
> 
> Wilcox, Biggits and Banks are actual Belle Reve Penitentiary guards in the Young Justice series.
> 
> Also I said that this was going to be the last chapter, and for all intents and purposes, it is. But then I realized that how can I finish this story without bring it full circle and end it with everyone’s favourite disgruntled colonel. And so, we will have one last short epilogue to end things and tie off the few lose ends I have hanging.


	8. For Those About to Rock (We Salute You)

Rick Flag would no longer begrudgingly admit to having developed a bit of a soft spot for his newly acquired and rather unruly in a violent murderous manner subordinates. If fact, he’s become quite proud of the fact. They were still a bunch of disorderly, disrespectful assholes with absolutely no disregard for superiors, but ultimately they were still his charges and his responsibility.

He would begrudgingly admit that at this point he’d even consider all of them friends, if not actual family.

He has no family of his own, at least none that he’d consider as such. But between GQ and Boomerang feeling like the incorrigible little brothers he never wanted; Harley, Pamela and Katana the sisters he simultaneously wanted to protect and was scared shitless of. KC is the jock cousin that comes by during his off days at college who always considers himself cooler than he actually is and June as his cute nerdy girl high school sweetheart who somehow never considered herself good enough when in truth it was Flag who asks himself every day how he managed to land such an amazing girl.

He pats the small unseen velvet box in the side pocket of his jacket subconsciously.

And Floyd; Flag doesn’t even know how to describe how he considers Floyd; a bit like a friend, a bit like family but an equal in every way nonetheless. And then there’s dear sweet Zoe. Flag’s never considered himself a fatherly type person; or rather he never thought his profession and life really made him the best candidate to be a parent to anyone. But after knowing Zoe, after accepting her into his life and into June’s life; watching her grow through all those months, watching her accept everything happening with a grace, cleverness and maturity despite her age and turning into such a fine young lady that Flag would be more than honoured to be able to call her his daughter. Everything that’s happened up to this point only ended up opening his eyes to the reality of his life and to all the possibilities; to things that he suddenly realized that he really did want and for the first time in his life, he realized isn’t so far out of reach.

An actual family. His own family.

He considers the squad closest to anything he’d ever describe as such but he wouldn’t deny the appeal of having his own legacy live on and have a gaggle of little Rick Flag’s and little June Moone’s running around the world. If nothing else, he wanted a chance to start over, to prove to himself that he isn’t the defective fuck-up his own family had convinced him he was; that being a terrible father isn’t in his genes like he’d thought all this time.

_‘Company halt.’_

GQ’s familiar voice floats in through the communication system interrupting his thoughts. It’s only two words but Flag can already feel the pulsing of an incoming headache behind his eyeballs

_‘Uh, Diablo’s feeding cats again.’_

The staff tries not to make it obvious but Flag can hear the sound of muffled snickering resounding from a few people in the command center. He’s not sure how it was before when Waller was in charge, but the atmosphere in the command center nowadays feels more relaxed. The people who come in to work under him, monitoring the movements of the squad and assisting them remotely all seem pleased to have him in charge. Besides his strict rules about being punctual and people not half-assing their job, Flag’s not all that concerned about the little things like what they chose to wear or whether or not they’re hanging around chatting with each other when office traffic is a little slow. As long as they’re doing their duty and nothing gets in the way or affects the efficiency of the squad or the mission, then Flag really doesn’t care. Flag believes that happy people do their job better than people who are scared, which seems to be the root of most of his disagreements with Waller these days.

He doesn’t hear from Waller often, but when she does manage to peel herself away from whatever secret and most likely illegal things she’s doing for the upper echelon of US government, they never fail to get into something short of an outright shouting match that always ends with him feeling both mentally and physically drained.

His back still hurts. His body hurts. His head hurts. His patience hurts. His soul hurts and he can do nothing to really help any of his ailments. It doesn’t help when the squad is out on a mission (without him, a fact that he still hasn’t gotten used to even after all this time) and he has to hear the happenings second hand.

_‘They’re creatures of this earth too, man. They deserve to be alive just as much as we do, maybe even more.’_

Flag likes Diablo, he really does and he more than respects the other man’s beliefs and his sense of morality. But it doesn’t mean it helps his pounding headache in any way whatsoever.

 _‘You know what,’_ Floyd’s annoyed voice come booming in immediately after _. ‘As squad leader, I would like to make my very first commandment.’_

Flag thinks he hears KC in the background saying offhanded how squad leaders don’t make commandments, but he decides to not comment.

_‘Official name change declaration; El Diablo will from now on be known as El Gato.’_

Flag can almost imagine Diablo’s chilled demeanour and expression when he speaks again, his voice floating through the very epitome of cool.

_‘You say that like it’s an insult, man, but I take it as the opposite.’_

A third voice chimes in. _‘We’re going to have to start an animal subdivision of the squad after this.’_

_‘You would know all about animal subs, wouldn’t you, Boom?’_

Flag thinks he made a mistake when he handed out those fancy ear bud communicators to each member of the squad. He was going to have to give that decision a serious rethink. Mostly he did it out of a sense of misplaced nostalgia. No matter how much he denied, it he missed being a part of the squad banter. It often frayed at his nerves and annoyed the living shit out of him, but he admits that the day to day is anything but boring. He misses the camaraderie and the familiarity the squad provided and the sense of safety and confidence that every single person out there had his back.

_‘You’re one to talk KC you are literally an animal.’_

_‘There’s a difference between being physically an animal and not being a human being, obviously you wouldn’t know the difference.’_

_‘Boys, boys, boys.’_

The seductive voice chiming into the fray gives Flag both a sense of relief and apprehension.  The newest member of the squad has proven to be a valuable asset, during and outside of missions. Despite her almost provocative demeanour and near default seductive personality at first glance, Pamela’s near genius level of intellect and expertise in botany and toxicology (not to mention the power to fucking control plants) proved to be an invaluable addition. Though Flag will absolutely deny this fact if accused, but seeing the way Pamela treats Harley—like she’s the most cherished flower in the world and watching the way Harley’s whole demeanour lights up because of it, it gives Flag a sense of happiness and satisfaction himself. He’s never been a fan of Harley’s toxic ex, despite what Harley has to say about him.

For being a bunch of dangerous killers, the squad ended up bringing out best of the humanity in each other.

Flag doesn’t hear Harley’s voice, but he hears a purring sound in the background and he has no doubt that it’s coming from Pamela’s communicator because Harley no doubt just draped herself over the other woman.

_‘Let El Gato feed his cats, gentlemen. It’s not like we’re in a rush or anything.’_

Flag was about to remind them that they were indeed in a rush. They had approximately an hour left to traverse the three blocks of the abandoned back alley they were navigating headed towards the heavily guarded compound that was their mission destination; get in, get the package before said package could board a private plane set for some distant country with a distinct lack of extradition laws, get out and get back to the operations base to board their own flight back to the US.

_‘Yeah guys, let miguelito feet his kitties. We’ve got an hour.’_

Flag was about to interject again, but decides against it. At the very least, he settled with finding comfort in the fact that they knew they had a time limit and what it was. It was hard leaving the mission in GQ’s hands, he’d always been meticulous when it came to missions and handling his teams and assigned squads, and having to relinquish control like this was a trying experience, but it needed to be done and he needed to have faith in his own squad. He did have faith in them; it just seemed to get tested by his own sense of self-doubt.

“However the fuck you do it, guys, just get it done. I don’t need Waller even more on my ass than she already is.”

_‘Roger that, colonel.’_

GQ was turning out to be a much better field commander than Flag would ever have given him credit for. But that was GQ, he forced other people to underestimate him and when least expected, he’d do a complete 360 and take them down. It was one of the things Flag saw immediately when the younger man came onto his team. He reminded Flag a lot of himself in that respect.

_‘You want us to pack you something from the street vendors on our way back?’_

Just the memory sends shivers of terror down his spine.

“Just get the fucking thing done,” he says, completely ignoring the question. “Flag out.”

The beep signals an affirmative to his last command. Flag releases a long, exasperated breath and sinks into his seat. The oncoming headache had finally arrived, pounding on his frontal lobe and behind his eyeballs like a jilted former lover beating down his front door.

June was coming over in a few hours with Zoe and they were going to head out to lunch together. It was just enough time to see through the mission to completion—bar any unwanted complication, and considering the squad in question, Flag would have to pray to all the gods he doesn’t believe in in hopes of keeping them on schedule. Then to file up the official paperwork and wait the 5 hours for the squad’s flight to arrive back on US soil. That way Floyd will at least get to see Zoe for a few hours and Flag won’t have to deal with their shit on an empty stomach.

“Colonel?”

The new voice attracts his attention away from the mountain of files in front of him. Who knew working in an office away from the danger and the fire fight could be so fucking stressful.

“Commander Jeffries,” he acknowledges the older mans’ presence with a respectful nod.

“We got him,” he says seriously, as if the good old commander had another default attitude. “He’s waiting for you in your office. I’ve got men guarding the room and the doors so that he doesn’t try to make a run for it.”

“Thank you, commander,” he says earnestly, reaching for his cane and getting to his feet.

Bringing the good commander into the squad was one of his personal requests to Waller before he took on the position; both Waller and Commander Jeffries had been sceptical at first, but Flag could see in the man’s tough and weather-worn eyes that the prospect of getting out into the field again excited him. He’d been cooped up too long indoors being Waller’s personal lap dog and because of that, he knew the man could put aside his utter disdain for Floyd to come and work under him. He wasn’t keen on the squad on a whole, but he’d taken bit of a shine to KC oddly enough, and he was respectful enough to Harley and Pamela for it to not be an issue. Diablo mostly ignored him and he in turn mostly ignored Boomerang, but Floyd on the other hand he absolutely despised. Truthfully Flag found the whole thing entirely too amusing. Floyd for his part seemed to genuinely like the disgruntled commander.

The next moment finds Flag in the corridor, walking—or rather, limping—the few steps to his personal office at the end of the hall, watching as the two suited men standing guard outside his door snap to attention when he approaches. He returns the salute before entering, and repeats the motions again with the two other men standing inside the room. He dismisses them curtly as he walks around the length of the table, all whole time keeping a sharp eye on the person sitting warily in the chair in front of his desk.

“What’s your name?” he asks after a few stilted seconds pass by in silence.

The boy keeps silent.

Flag can’t tear his eyes away from the too young face and the gaunt cheeks and memories from the night of the shooting come flooding back; seeing the young boy crying before him, asking for him to help find his mom. Staying with the boy for however long before the crying woman comes running up to them, thanking him for helping her son or some shit like that. Flag berates himself for not seeing through the act.

“My name’s Rick,” he says when the boy doesn’t seem at all inclined to answer his question. “Rick Flag.”

The only sign that he’s actually listening is the way he shuffled slightly in his seat when Flag tells him his name.

“I don’t hold you responsible for what happened that night,” he adds, watching as the boy continues to avoid making eye contact, focusing instead of picking at the leathery material of the arm rest of the chair he’s seated on.

He couldn’t be more than 14 years old, Flag observes; clothes tattered and dirty. Too little meat on the bones and lack of care makes it obvious that the boy has no one to care for him. It immediately tugs at Flag’s heartstrings.

“Did they pay you?” he asks, “To pretend to be her son?”

Still the boy doesn’t answer, he just slouches deeper into himself and Flag takes pity on him.

He leans forward across his desk, resting on his elbows and continues eyeing the boy, willing him to look up and meet his eyes.

“You’re not in trouble, kid. I’m not going to do anything to you. I just brought you here to get some answers. I don’t blame you for what happened, whether or not you knew what was going to happen. I want to help you but that’s only going to happen if you look me in the eyes.”

Reluctantly, after a few tense seconds pass by in mute silence, the boy actually moves. His head lifts and finally his downtrodden gaze meets Flag’s own.

Flag can’t help the smile that breaks out on his face.

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

The boy breaths in heavily through his nose, biting the inside of his cheek tensely before he opens his mouth to speak.

“They just paid me to keep you there. I didn’t know what was going to happen.”

Flag nods. Though it was the answer he expected he has a feeling that the kid isn’t telling him the whole story, but he decides not to pursue the line of questioning. The ‘whys’ didn’t detract from the fact that they preyed on a desperate child and used him to carry out their dirty work and it’s never been in Flag’s nature to use any children in that way, especially given his traumatic history, but especially recently since Zoe became a permanent fixture in his life.

The boy looks away again but Flag’s gotten his answers, he’s going to have to accept that it’s the most he’s going to get at this point.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

He asks again, watching the way his whole body almost stills at the question, making it clear that it’s been a while. The boys’ shrug only confirms his suspicions and he can only sigh.

“Commander,” he calls out to older man he knows is standing outside his door. Not a moment passes before the door opens to reveal the weathered face of a man with too much life experience and has obviously seen too many terrible things in his life. But looking at his eyes looking at the pathetic form of the boy sitting in front of them, Flag knows their gazes mirror each other in both anger and sadness. “Commander, why don’t you take the kid down to the cafeteria and get him something to eat, and maybe a change of clothes.”

The boy looks up at him at this point, obviously startled by the request. He looks him straight in the eye when he directs his comment at the boy.

“Go with Commander Jeffries. But I suggest not trying anything stupid like running, kid, don’t underestimate him just because he looks like someone’s kindly grandfather”—he hears a derisive snort at that—“the good commander here clocked 12.2 seconds flat in a 100 meter dash.”

Hesitantly the boy gets to his feet and with one last glance in Flag’s direction, walks towards Commander Jeffries’ outstretched arm.

“Hey, kid, you never told me you name.”

The question statement stops the boy just a foot away from the awaiting commander. It looks like he’s having an intense internal debate with himself before he half turns towards Flag and almost like the words are being dragged out of his mouth one syllable at a time, mutters, “Jason,” he says almost under his breath. Both Flag and the commander have to lean in slightly to hear what he said before he repeats his words again. “Jason Todd.”

Flag nods satisfied at the boy before motioning for him to go with the far too patient commander waiting by the door.

As the door swings to a close, Flag can’t help the exhale of half exhaustion, half relief that seems to emanate from his very soul as he leans back into his sinfully comfortable chair.

He thinks of his squad out there on the mission without him; GQ having turned out to be a far better and more effective leader than anyone (including Flag) ever gave him credit for. Diablo undoubtedly just found more stray animals to feed much to everyone’s (including Flag’s) chagrin.  Harley and Pamela probably being way too touchy feely and sexual with each other than is really necessary, especially during missions. Boomerang most likely ogling the two, making inappropriate comments and getting his ass kicked twice as hard and KC finding everything _far_ too amusing.

Flag feels himself attempting to live vicariously through Floyd and undoubtedly Floyd at the same time is channelling all of Flag’s pent up annoyance and frustration by being benched and away from the squad he loves so much by being twice the disgruntled pain in the ass. That thought gives Flag a measure of comfort, knowing that he’s a constant thorny presence in the squad’s side even from all the way on the other side of the world.

The only question left on his mind at this point was what in the hell was he going to do with this kid?

He doesn’t get to mull over that question for long when one of the men comes running into his office, without knocking too, and Flag immediately knows that some shit just went down.

“Colonel—”

Flag feels his headache returning sevenfold. “How many are dead and do any of them belong to us?”

“No reports of casualties so far, sir. But—uh…apparently half the compound is in flames and the entire third floor of the mansion just blew sky high,” he reports quickly and Flag can only massage the bridge of his nose tiredly as the shit just keeps getting heaped on his day. “There’s an on-going firefight and—uh—”

“Just spit it out.”

“Quinn and Isley are reportedly making out on the patio.”

The sad thing is nothing Flag just heard surprised him in the slightest.

He grabs his cane and gathers the remnants of whatever is left of his patience and sanity as he tiredly trudges out of his office. The tech guy, he’s pretty sure the guy’s name is Harold or something; all these nerds look and sound the same, skitters after him nervously.

The first sound that reaches him as he walks into the frenzy that is the command center; nerds scurrying nervously left and right and the rattling sound of gunfire sounding from the coms in the background is a booming explosion and a psychopathic laugh sounding somewhere in the distance that sounds suspiciously like GQ.

Flag sighs exasperatedly through the fond smile he can’t keep of his face as he subconsciously thinks out loud, “All in a day’s work.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is guys! Finally I have reached the end. At one point I didn’t think I was even going to make it to this point; the last couple of months have been rough inspiration wise, but I made a promise to myself that I wasn’t going to start a story I didn’t intend to finish. And to finish this story feels like an accomplishment unlike anything I’ve felt before.
> 
> Also just like with the rest of this story, I have taken liberties with certain characters, their backstories and circumstances, like the thing with Jason Todd. That was just a bit of name dropping and to tie up the loose end that no one but me actually noticed. I’m following one of the incarnation of the comic character where his parents were killed by KC (which they later ret-conned and made Two-Face their killer) so in my headcanon, one of the reasons he took on the job to trap Rick was not only for the money but also because of Rick is leader of the squad with the person he believes killed his parent. It’s just a bit of character background I had in mind that I won’t go anywhere with. It’s just all in good fun
> 
> I would like to thank all my readers on ao3, tumblr and fanfiction dot net who have stuck with me and this story through thick and think; who have taken time to read this quaint little thing I started on a whim, left kudos and some really, really amazing, mind-blowing reviews that I sometimes still think ‘I can’t believe people are saying this about something I wrote’. I am eternally humbled and appreciative of every single one of you and I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I have writing it and hopefully it ended on a note that lived up to all your expectations.
> 
> Thank you all and I love you guys so much!

**Author's Note:**

> Follow on me tumblr I'm at [reivenesque](http://reivenesque.tumblr.com).
> 
>  
> 
> Uploaded a banner for the fic.


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